My Life As a House Elf
by just call me Cappy
Summary: When Hermione is turned into a House elf by an irritated wizard in Knockturn Alley, she finds herself being bought and hired to ... who else, but the Malfoys?
1. One: The Curse

My Life As A House-Elf  
Chapter One – The Curse

* * * *

The lanes of Knockturn Alley were crowded that afternoon. 

Wizards and witches of all shapes and sizes crowded the lanes, glaring from behind shadowy cowls, or looking disdainfully at the filthy, cobbled streets, ignoring those around them. For some enchanted reason, the streets of Knockturn Alley always seemed to be in perpetual twilight, even with the bright sun shining overhead. They were also unnaturally and sullenly silent.

A crooked old witch peddled bottles of foul-smelling Essence of Abhorrence nearby, calling out in her dry, wheezing tone, while a shady dark wizard in a corner offered dragons' gallstones in exchange for a few Galleons. Shops with shadowy windows and gruesome displays stood in rows, seemingly carved out of the black brick that made up their structure. 

Hermione stalked through the dark, dank, filthy lanes if Knockturn Alley, drawing her cloak up to cover her face. Beneath it, her face was twisted up in disgust. Knockturn Alley wasn't any place for a well-to-do Gryffindor, or Head Girl, no less. She reminded herself why she was there. 

"Just one more stop," Hermione muttered to herself, glancing at a sheet of paper she held in hand. "One more stop and I'm out of here." 

_"Hebridean Black scales,_ - the note read, written in Hermione's graceful, flowing script. _"Glumbumble treacle, Fwooper quills, Erumpent fluid."_

The last item on the list was clearly illegal in the hands of a student, considering it was highly explosive and monitored closely by the Ministry of Magic. 

But Hermione wasn't deterred. These potion ingredients were for her research, which she had been carefully doing in her basement late at night. The last few ingredients weren't for sale in Diagon Alley, for obvious reasons. And Hermione knew just the place where black market trade took place in broad daylight. 

Not that she enjoyed being in Knockturn Alley. 

As she rounded into a corner, a loud tumult of noise made her pause instinctively. A large crowd of people were gathered around a platform, watching something. There was a lot of jostling and shouting and yelling. Out of curiosity, Hermione edged closer to look. 

Hermione had seen many strange and horrible things in her four years at Hogwarts, but what she was seeing before her was the worst. 

House-elves in cages, tied with ropes, shacked to posts, collared like beasts of burden. Hermione stopped walking abruptly, staring in open-mouthed rage. 

It was an auction. The auctioneer, an unpleasant looking man with greasy hair and an equally greasy moustache, called out the price for each House-elf in a hoarse voice, pointing to the cages with his cane and banging the bars violently. The House-elf in each cage cringed in fright, whimpering. 

Hermione was stunned into outraged silence. How _dare_ they? She thought heatedly. As President of S.P.E.W, Hermione knew she had to do something drastic to free all those poor elves. Her mind bubbled with all sorts of poisonous thoughts. Most of them involved explosive hexes, flaming knives, pointy things, and dragons. 

Before she could raise her wand and direct a few choice hexes and curses towards the auctioneer, a cold, drawling voice nearby interrupted her. 

"Fancy seeing you here, Granger." 

Hermione turned to come face to face with Draco Malfoy, someone she really didn't want to meet at a time like this, or any time for that matter. "What are you doing in a place like this?" he said, his voice laced with disdain. 

She scowled. "None of your business, Malfoy." 

"Come to buy some House-elves for yourself, eh, Granger? A little team of servants would come in handy carrying all those heavy books for you." 

Hermione nearly choked in disbelief and rage. "Buy House-elves? _Buy House-elves?!_ Excuse me, but I'm not a heartless, merciless snob from a rich family that enjoys torturing poor elves for no apparent reason, Malfoy. Unlike certain individuals I can mention." 

"Oooh, touchy today, aren't we?" 

Before she could even raise her wand to perform one of her more devastating jinxes, the jewelled top of a walking cane came into her line of sight and gently pushed Draco aside. Hermione noticed for an instant that the top of the cane was carved with the letter 'M', intertwined with the figure of a serpent. 

The person holding the cane was Lucius Malfoy. Hermione lowered her wand, and felt the sudden, urgent inclination to leave the scene immediately. 

"Well, well. What have we here," Lucius murmured in a soft, sinister tone. Hermione felt her blood run cold. All the rage that had been coursing through her minutes ago died away into a cold, cautious wariness that bordered on the edge of fear. She desperately wanted to get away, but her feet remained anchored to the cobbles. 

"A young little Mudblood who has lost her way," Lucius commented. "This is that Granger girl, isn't she, Draco?" 

Draco nodded, suddenly silent. His head was slightly bowed, eyes cast down respectfully at the cobblestones. 

"I wonder what a Muggle-born witch like you would want in a place like this?" Lucius looked scornfully down at Hermione, staring at her as if he were studying an unpleasant looking insect, before turning his gaze upon his son. "Draco, please show Miss Granger the way out of Knockturn Alley. This is no place for those of her kind." 

Draco, silent and scowling, reached to take Hermione's arm. She jerked away. 

"I can find my own way out, thank you," she said quietly, her tone laced with much resentment. 

"Very well, then. I'd suggest you demonstrate that." 

Hermione left the scene, her mind simmering with disgust. Horrible folks, she thought poisonously. The Malfoys are all the same: horrid, dreadful, and unspeakably arrogant. They're probably there to buy more House-elves to enslave! She shuddered in disgust. 

She took a left turn, avoiding the malicious stares of a few suspicious warlocks, and stood right in front of the _Borgins and Burkes._ Hermione sighed and took a look at her list. This was it. Eyes still on the list, she stepped forward … 

… and bumped into a rather sinister looking wizard. 

His surprised, furious roar drowned out the distinct sound of something fragile shattering. "Watch where you're going, idiot," he sneered. "Young witches nowadays … don't know how to respect their elders. Come here, girl!" 

Hermione picked herself up from the cobblestones, dusting herself off and stammering apologies. She was clearly shocked, wondering how fast the wizard suddenly appeared. 

He looked old. White beard and thick greyish eyebrows, with long ancient hair that looked like it needed brushing. His thick woollen cloak was tattered in places, faded and coloured a dull olive green. He muttered curses as he tried to stand up. 

"I am so sorry, sir," Hermione stammered, helping him up. It was then she noticed that, in the fall, she had landed on her wand and it had broken. "I didn't see you, I –" 

"Didn't see me? Why, are you blind?" he cried, outraged. Then he looked down and became suddenly silent. Hermione, too, looked down and saw what caused the sudden silence, the blood draining from her face, realizing her wand wasn't the only thing that had broken in the fall. 

The elderly wizard had been carrying a load of potion bottles of coloured blown glass, which Hermione knew must have been elaborately designed and exceedingly expensive, even though they lay shattered upon the pavement in dozens of multi-coloured pieces. 

They stood for a few speechless moments. 

"Why you little WORM!" the wizard snarled. "You interfering little imp! You are just like my House-elf, always breaking everything she lay her hands on!" 

"I am so sorry sir, I'll help you buy more –" 

"They were the last of their kind, you snivelling brat! I can't buy anymore! They are extremely rare potions bottles blown by blind goblin craftsmen!" He started growling, his face purple with rage. "Oh, you are going to be very, very sorry, girl, that you ever meddled with Barquel the Sorcerer. _Nindius Satacforia!_" 

He had pulled out his wand before Hermione could even react, pointing it towards her as he muttered words of enchantment. Hermione suddenly felt herself shrinking. 

She glanced down at her hands. Her usual, milky white skin was melting into dull, brownish green, and her long, tapered fingers became thinner and shorter, and bonier. To her horror, she felt her ears grow past their usual length, stretching further as she shrank smaller and smaller, till she stood no more than three feet tall. 

She looked up. Barquel the Sorcerer was gone, leaving behind the shattered pieces of his expensive potion bottles on the pavement. 

Hermione stepped over to the shards of broken glass. She felt surprised at how light she felt. She tentatively peered at her reflection in the broken pieces of glass, and abruptly drew back, wishing she hadn't. The sight that greeted her filled her with horror and alarm. 

She was a House-elf. 

Barquel the Sorcerer had turned Hermione into a House-elf, alone in Knockturn Alley, armed with nothing but her broken wand …

* * * *


	2. Two: The Manor

My Life As a House Elf:

Chapter Two – The Manor

*          *          *          *

Hermione sat on the pavement, holding the two pieces of her broken wand in hand. Her large, glazed eyes bordered on the edge of tears, panic-stricken and hopeless they seemed. Hermione wasn't used to being a House-elf. Saving them from a lifetime of enslavement, yes, but being one? It was a little too much to take in.

 "What am I going to do?" she squeaked. She hopelessly tried to piece the wand together, holding the broken ends towards one another in hopes some sheer magnetic force (or divine miracle) would bind the broken wood and split unicorn hair together. Nothing happened, as expected. "What am I going to do?" she repeated, dropping the broken pieces and cupping her face in her hands.

Suddenly she was covered by an immensely large shadow.

"Well, well. What have we here?"

Hermione looked up, expecting the worst. A shadowy, tall, looming face peered down at here, looking quizzical indeed. The man's tattered cloak covered his enormous frame, and his hood covered half his face, making him look like an incredibly large, solid bed sheet. "A lost House-elf, eh?"

Hermione made no attempt to answer.

The man looked down to see the broken wand in her hands, raised his eyebrows, and glanced at the broken shards of glass nearby. He shook his head, tut-tuttering. "Oh dear, oh dear, what have you done? Your master probably fired you didn't he, after breaking his wand and those expensive goblin potion bottles? I can tell because you've got a fair amount of human clothing around you." It was then Hermione noticed she was still wearing her dress and cloak. "Well, well, you are in a lot of trouble."

Hermione's eyes glistened. She looked as if she were about to cry.

"Now, now, there's no need for that," the man – which by now Hermione was beginning to suspect was a half-giant – said gently. He picked up the broken wand and, to Hermione's dismay, threw it in a gutter. "I know precisely the place where you can find a new master. A House-elf without a family to serve is unfortunate indeed."

He started to walk away, glancing back for Hermione to follow. Lost, disoriented and in complete distress, she had no other choice but to follow, the painful, twisting feeling in her stomach telling her she knew exactly where they were going.

*          *          *          *

"Fifty Galleons! Do I hear sixty Galleons? Fifty-five Galleons, then. Fifty-five I am bid! Sixty, sixty-five. Against you, madam. Sixty-five. Selling once. Selling twice. Sold to the lady in the third row, thank you, madam …"

Hermione could hear the cries as she edged closer, her stomach churning even more, generating an even more sickly feeling in her throat.

"Lot 45, we have here a young male House-elf," the auctioneer used the edge of his cane to rattle the bars of the House-elf's cage. Lot 45 cringed and whimpered, edging towards the back of the cage, crouching in the shadows. "Still in good health, just enlisted service. Hard-working and loyal, and very dependant. Going at forty Galleons …"

Hermione watched as wizards and witches, each even darker than the last, bid for this young House-elf's enslavement. She didn't feel rage like she used to, instead it was replaced by a sense of utter helplessness. As a House-elf, Hermione felt puny. She didn't like the feeling. Silently she wondered how long this spell lasted and when she would return to her human form.

"Going once. Going twice! Sold to the gentleman at the back, thank you sir …"

"Oi! Olaf!" the giant yelled. His voice boomed across the alley, causing everyone to look back. The auctioneer smiled a rather greasy smile and replied, "Uric! Hah, what do you have there with you?"

Everyone craned to look at Hermione. She withered underneath all the stares, and blushed with humiliation at the sound of chuckles and laughs, as a few members of the crowd pointed to her ample amount of human clothing. "Just one of my House-elves," the giant boomed. "Do you have any more room for one more?"

"What's the matter, Uric? Not up to your standards?" The auctioneer guffawed.

The giant shook his head. "Nah, just can't pay the upkeep, that's all. Two House-elves is enough for me. Fired this one."

"Alright then." The auctioneer signalled to one of his equally unpleasant looking assistants. "Bring it up, then. And give it proper garments. House-elf garments."

The giant bent down to look at Hermione. "Now take care of yourself, y'hear?"

Hermione nodded. She was grabbed roughly by the shoulders and hauled backwards, and looking upwards she saw the auctioneer's greasy-looking assistant pulling her towards the podium. She glanced back at the giant. He gave a little wave, and disappeared in the midst of the crowd.

"Hm, what have we here?" the auctioneer sneered repulsively down at Hermione, examining her as if she were an insect, not unlike a certain Lucius Malfoy. _That's the second time I've been peered at disgustedly_, Hermione thought, frowning. _And I certainly don't think it will be the last_. But unlike Lucius Malfoy, the auctioneer wasn't as adept at hiding his antipathy. 

"What are you frowning at?" He gave Hermione a severe nudge with his cane. It was enough for her to want to gouge his eyes out, but she wisely did nothing. "I don't like the ones with spirit. The sooner I get rid of you, the better." He scowled.

_Same here_, Hermione wanted to say. But she wasn't exactly looking forward to being nudged again.

He turned to address the crowd, auctioning off another House-elf (Lot 46) while the assistants seized Hermione's old robes and presented her with a pillowcase instead. She burned with indignation. _As soon as I'm back to my human self_, she thought to herself furiously, _I'm going to do something about this_.

"Time is money. Hurry up, elf," the auctioneer muttered threateningly at Hermione, directing his cane towards an empty, open cage.

Hermione stared. _There's no way I'm going in there_.

"Well?" the auctioneer's face was purple with rage. "Get in!"

A brief moment of hesitation. Swallowing her disgust and her pride, Hermione stepped forward, cursing auctions, rich families and obnoxious people all at once. The auctioneer, aggravated, gave Hermione a harsh kick in the back for good measure. She landed face-first in the cage.

The sickening feeling in her gut increased. She wished all sorts of impressive curses upon the auctioneer's head, but wisely kept her mouth shut. From all her research on House-elves, she learned that they take abuse quite patiently. She didn't want anyone to know she was actually Hermione Granger, a witch. Knockturn Alley wasn't any place to declare yourself a Mudblood.

"This one, as you, I am certain, have all observed, is a fine specimen donated by my kind friend Uric Fidus, recently released from duty. As you can see, she's looks likely to work hard and certainly seems to be quite energetic." The auctioneer tapped the top of the cage with his cane, scowling at Hermione who crouched inside.

"Going at thirty-five Galleons."

_Oh come on_, Hermione thought. _I'm bound to be worth more than that._

"Do I have forty? Forty Galleons, madam."

Hermione peered from the bars of the cage to watch the spectacle of her enslavement. She scanned to crowd. _So these are the people who I'm probably going to be enslaved to for the rest of my life._ She shuddered. _If I don't set the spell right. I have to find that Barquel madman before the spell becomes permanent …_

Suddenly she caught sight of something that caused her to freeze. Draco Malfoy was there. With Lucius Malfoy. _So I was right_, Hermione thought grimly. _They have come to buy more House-elves_. And Draco was pointing. Right towards her.

Lucius bent over to say something to his son, looking straight towards Hermione. Draco nodded solemnly in reply. Casting another look at Hermione, Lucius gave a faint scowl, and raised a gloved hand.

"Fifty Galleons! Fifty Galleons from a very gracious Mr. Malfoy, thank you very much sir …" the auctioneer smiled nervously, his usual harsh voice suddenly going oily and melting. Those around Lucius glanced around them, and, very slowly, started shifting and edging away as if the air around him had suddenly gotten very cold.

A superior looking man, nearer towards the podium, didn't look as perturbed as everyone else when Lucius Malfoy's name was mentioned. Everybody supposed that this particular gentleman was foreign. He looked rich, and extremely prosperous. He seemed large enough to fill an entire wardrobe, and looked like he was _wearing_ an entire wardrobe. He raised a fleshy hand into the air.

"Sixty Galleons from Monsieur Thenardier, all the way from France. Yes, do I hear seventy?"

Hermione watched as Lucius bent down once more to address his son, this time in sceptical enquiry. Draco looked up, with a scowl as equally faint and subtle as his father's, and nodded firmly. As if to stress his point, he pointed once more directly towards Hermione.

Though he obviously radiated sheer disapproval, Lucius Malfoy raised his hand and cried, "Ninety."

The auctioneer nearly fell off his post. Ninety Galleons for a House-elf? He dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief, eyes glittering with greed. He didn't bother waiting. "Sold! Sold to a very generous Mr. Malfoy, thank you very much sir, if I must say you are looking quite excellent today …"

The crowd moved away exceptionally quickly when Lucius moved forward to collect his elf. Draco looked into the cage, and smiled, his eyes cold and stormy, his smile not at all comforting. Hermione cringed.

The auctioneer continued on his shameless flattery. Lucius ignored him and hoisted the cage, signalling for Draco to follow. Meanwhile, inside the cage, the sickening feeling in Hermione's gut began to escalate. She clutched her stomach, willing herself to remain calm. The swinging feeling of the cage as Lucius began to walk didn't help much either.

_I'm going to work for the Malfoys,_ Hermione thought, pale with repulsion. _I think I'm going to be sick._

She leaned out from the bars of the cage, and, rather unceremoniously, threw up all over Lucius Malfoy's magnificent black boots.

*          *          *          *

"That was bold of you," Draco Malfoy commented, unlocking the door to Hermione's cage, "to go on throwing up all over my Father's boots. What a way to set a first impression."

Hermione burned with embarrassment. "I didn't mean to," she said, although it did feel quite refreshing. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Draco said, smirking, taking off his boots. They were in Draco Malfoy's room, a few hours after returning from Knockturn Alley. Hermione had spent a rather uncomfortable carriage journey strapped to the roof. "I think he deserved it."

Hermione was speechless. _What did Malfoy just say?_

"Well, don't just stand there," he said scornfully. "Pick up the boots, get my cloak, and see to the fireplace. Weren't you trained at all?"

Hermione stammered an apology and hurriedly rushed to do the said duties, in a state of dazed shock. _What am I doing?_ Hermione thought, taking the cloak from Draco's shoulders and hanging it up. _I've been turned into a House-elf, had my wand broken, auctioned off like produce, and I'm in Malfoy Manor, in Draco Malfoy's room, playing nurse. One more surprise and I swear I'll have a heart attack_.

The doors burst open.

There, that did it. Hermione paused to clutch her heart and gasped.

"Draco, you're back!" it was Narcissa Malfoy. 

Hermione, though paralysed with near heart failure, was observant enough to notice that Narcissa was exceptionally, if outstandingly, pretty. She didn't look at all bad, open and smiling like that. Narcissa's blond tresses hung beautifully over her face and stood pinned up on her head like a crown, adorned with small jewels. The dress she was wearing looked expensive and exceptional, making her look regal and lovely all at once. Hermione found herself aching with jealousy.

"Mother, I've been gone for only a few hours," Draco drawled, hiding his irritation well.

"Oh, but sweetie, I missed you all the same. Is that the new House-elf?" she glanced at Hermione.

"Yes. Father bought it for –"

"Wait," Narcissa interjected. Her face twisted in a concentrated scowl. To Hermione's surprise, she looked around the room, sniffing subtly as if she had a cold, or she was detecting something. "I smell Mudblood," she muttered.

The sheer transformation of Narcissa's face startled Hermione. Narcissa looked pretty before, but now she looked as if she smelled something foul, her perfect features contorted unpleasantly.

"Don't be silly, Mother," Draco drawled, unfazed. "There's no one in this room except you and me."

_And me_, Hermione thought meekly, trying her hardest not to be noticed.

"I can smell it!" Narcissa insisted. "There's Mudblood stench in this room."

"You need to get some rest, Mother," Draco sighed, gently taking her to the door. "Why don't you take a walk in the fountain pavillion."

"Maybe you're right, dear," Narcissa said, suddenly sounding tired. "Oh, and tell that elf to wash your cloak. You might have brushed against some filthy Muggle-born creature while you were in Knockturn Alley. Goodbye, dear." She kissed him on the forehead.

Draco clicked the door shut, rolled his eyes in exasperation, and threw himself upon his bed. Hermione stood stunned and speechless by the cloak stand.

Draco was first to break the silence. "That was Narcissa, by the way," he muttered. He got up and headed towards his wardrobe, picking up a few choice clothes and thick, fluffy towel and headed for the bathroom. 

"She's your Mistress whom you should obey without question," Draco continued. "She can probably smell the trace of Mudblood filth on my cloak when I ran into that Hermione Granger, so you'd better wash it before she starts accusing me of fraternising with the Enemy."

He entered the bathroom and locked the door behind him. Presently the sound of gushing water could be heard soon after.

"Merp," Hermione muttered, and panicked.

*          *          *          *


	3. Three: The Dinner

My Life As a House-Elf

Chapter Three – The Dinner

[A/N: Wow! Eight reviews overnight … I never expected such a good response! To those who reviewed, thank you graciously, I appreciate your comments. I look forward to hearing more from you. ::grin:: And to those who haven't reviewed, here's the third chapter … tell me what you think! :)]

*              *              *              *

Hermione panicked. She did it quite well.

First, she walked in random circles, wearing down a circular track in the lavish, wine-coloured carpet. She was playing with her hands, muttering to herself. "I must find that idiot Barquel," she muttered, "undo this wretched spell –" (which, by now, showed no signs of wearing off) –"return to Diagon Alley, get myself a new wand, and promise to never, ever go to Knockturn Alley without the company of a reliable adult. Now how in Hades am I going to get out of here?"

She took a deep breath to settle down. _I have to stay CALM_, she told herself. _Keep a cool head. Where's the first place I should look for information about wizards? Or evil, mad sorcerers, the Malfoys must know loads_ …

She took this opportunity to scrutinize the room. 

It was vast. 

But 'vast' was probably an understatement. The ceilings above stretched far into infinity, disappearing into shadows. A chandelier of gold and crystal hung unlit high above, which would probably look brilliant, Hermione thought, if it was lit at night. Brilliantly detailed tapestries of dragons and twisting serpents sloped gently from the walls like drapes, falling to the luxurious, carpet-lined floor with much ceremony, and intricately carved antique furniture of glossy pine and polished mahogany sat in various places, beautifully placed.

And, in the middle of it all was a lavishly vast four-poster bed, draped over with silk sheets and down-filled throw cushions and pillows, canopied and curtained with velvet. It did look a little messy though.

And there … in the corner, Hermione spotted precisely what she was looking for.

A bookshelf. 

Perfect.

It was large and imposing, yet it looked beautiful enough to be in a museum. Books lined the shelves, some worn, some fresh from the press, paperback or hardcover. Maybe there's something in there, Hermione thought, which could aid her.

She took a few tentative steps towards the bookshelf, examining the possible titles. She scrunched up her face in slight irritation and confusion. All the books seemed to be written in some unrecognisable foreign tongue.

_I didn't know Malfoy spoke a different language_, Hermione thought, not exactly welcoming the fact that Malfoy knew more than she did. Before she could lay a finger on any one of the hardcover volumes, the bathroom door unlocked itself.

Hermione's panic rose in a heart-jolting crescendo. Hastily, she gathered up the cloak, just as soon as Draco emerged from the bath, dressed in very elegant riding robes. He shot a glance at Hermione, and stared as if he were registering her existence for the fist time. "What?" he asked, while towelling down his hair. "You haven't put away that wretched thing yet? And why isn't the fireplace lit? Didn't I give you a direct order to see to it? It's freezing in here."

_It's the middle of summer_, Hermione wanted to say, but then she noticed it _was_, indeed, freezing. Draco's room always seemed to be in perpeptual winter, condsidering the cavernous ceiling. In a moment of pure absurdity, Hermione had the strong desire to knock her head against the nearby chest of drawers in guilt.

_Why would I want to do that?_ She asked herself. _That's silly_. The desire was banished in an instant.

"Well?" Draco asked, his eyebrows raising in astonishment. "Aren't you going to knock your head against a chest of drawers in guilt or something? Or at least handle fire? Oh, and get away from that bookshelf. It's off-limits to everyone but me and my Father."

Hermione stepped away from the bookshelf. She fidgeted uncomfortably under Draco's scrutinizing gaze. Did he suspect something? If he knew he had a Mudblood and not a House-elf in his room, he would tell Lucius, and Lucius would probably do something very unpleasant.

Hermione swallowed. She edged closer to the fireplace and knocked her head against the wall. "Bad, Her- uh, Hattie. _Bad_ Hattie. Hattie is so sorry, Master," – she retched inwardly at the sound of this word, "- Hattie will be good. Hattie is new, that's all."

"Hattie, eh? I knew you weren't trained," Draco muttered knowingly, rolling his eyes. "_What_ a bargain for ninety Galleons. No matter," he reached for a bell and prompty rang it. An instant later, there was a knock at the door and House-elf poked her head in. "Master Draco?" she squeaked.

He looked up. "This," he directed a hand in Hermione's direction, "is the new House-elf. She hasn't been trained and has absolutely no idea how to be of service. Teach her. I want her to be ready by the time I'm back from riding." With that as a final note, he grabbed a pair of boots, a riding crop and promptly exited the room. Hermione was glad to see him leave.

The House-elf stared at Hermione. "Hello," she managed to say. "What's your name?"

"Hattie," Hermione answered, wondering where she ever came up with that name.

"My name is Topsy," the other said shyly. "I am supposed to teach you on how to serve Master Draco." (Hermione retched again.) "First," Topsy continued, "the bookcase there is not for House-elves."

"I know. Malfoy told me."

Topsy frowned in puzzlement, then looked astonished. "We are supposed to call him: Master Draco," Topsy said  She said it in the same tone of voice someone would use when saying, "You're not supposed to stick a your tongue in a toaster."

"Master Malfoy is Master Draco's father," Topsy continued. "And Mistress Malfoy is the Lady of the House. House-elves are not to call them by any other name."

Hermione rolled her eyes. _Great_, she thought. _Master Draco. He's anything but my master! He's my worst enemy. He's my arch nemsis. He's demon spawn that has crawled from the deepest, darkest pits of Hades. He's anything but my Master_. 

But instead of saying all these things, she nodded as if she understood and agreed completely.

"Come," Topsy said, heading towards the fireplace. "Here is how House-elves set the fireplace."

_I'd rather set fire to Malfoy's bed,_ Hermione thought with much irony.

*              *              *              *

Throughout the rest of the day, Hermione very reluctantly learnt what she was required to learn … where laundry went, how to dust, what to touch and what not to.

Cleaning up Draco's bed was something Hermione wanted to do least of all. She'd rather swallow broken glass. As she shifted through the pillows and straightened the bed sheets, Hermione secretly hoped she would find a teddy bear, or a security blanket, or frilly pink pyjamas, or something discreetly embarrassing that she could use as blackmail material when she got back to being human. She half expected to find – she shuddered at the thought – woman's lingerie, a hot red bra or some black lace panties. Nothing. Draco hid his secrets well. 

All she found was a day-old copy of the _Daily Prophet_ with Harry Potter's face on the front page, doodled on with marker in all its insulting detail. Harry had some of his teeth scribbled out, and the lightning bolt-shaped scar on his forehead had morphed itself into a rather interesting tattoo, reading, 'Potter Stinks'.

Sighing, Hermione dumped it into the wastepaper basket.

"Now Hattie is ready," Topsy said, beaming from ear to pointy ear. "Hattie is ready to serve her family."

"Topsy," Hermione said suddenly, frowning slightly, engaged in thought. "Have you ever thought of … working for wages?"

Topsy's face turned white, as if Hermione just mentioned something quite unmentionable. "We must not speak of such things!" she squeaked. "House-elves work because we are required to. We serve our family. We receive food, and shelter in return. Wages!" Topsy said the word like it was taboo, and shuddered.

"Well, Topsy, there's a House-elf that works in Hogwarts … his name is Dobby, and he works for wages –"

"Oh, Dobby," Topsy sobbed. "He was Master Malfoy's personal House-elf … he was such a rebel! Oh, bad Dobby! Topsy knew Dobby would end up in trouble!"

"But Topsy," Hermione struggled, "he's very happy! He's not forced to wear rags, he wears clothes, and –"

Topsy started to sob uncontrollably again. "Clothes!" she wailed in anguish. Then, turning to Hermione, she asked, "How does Hattie know this?"

Hermione had no answer at first. Then, after a while, she said, "W-well, Dobby is a very famous House-elf, and I plan to follow in his footsteps when I'm freed –"

More sobbing. Topsy looked at Hermione in true concern. With a strangled cry, she said, "Topsy thought Hattie was such a _nice_ House-elf!" She left the room in tears.

_Well_, Hermione thought. _That certainly didn't go very well_.

*              *              *              *

Draco wasn't looking forward to dinner tonight. 

_Especially_ tonight. They had guests over, and that meant dress robes.

Secondly, it was the Parkinsons they were having over. Responding to Pansy Parkinson's battering eyelashes and suggestive little smiles got tiresome after a while. If he could continue riding till they left, even if it meant riding till midnight, he would. But courtesy, good manners and his parents forbid him to miss this dinner.

"House-elf," he muttered as he entered his bedroom. "Get my dress robes out. And prepare yourself, we're having guests over for dinner." He removed his riding boots and dropped them unceremoniously upon the carpet, stripping off his jacket after that. Hermione rushed to pick up the discarded garments, sighing inwardly. Draco was wise enough not to actually give her the garments directly, thus freeing her from service.

"By the way," he said, heading towards the bathroom, "what's your name?"

Hermione swallowed. "Hattie."

"Hattie, _sir_," Draco muttered irritably, locking the bathroom door behind him.

_It seems every time I'm with Malfoy_, Hermione thought with much irony, _he's always in the bathroom. _Splashing water could be heard audibly behind the door. Hermione's face twisted in annoyance, realizing that Draco never once thanked her, or acknowledged the splendid job she did cleaning up his room.

She sulked as she headed for the wardrobe to retrieve Draco's dress robes.

He had quite a few, Hermione thought, staring at the sheer, immense quantity of BLACK Draco had in his wardrobe. Sure, there were a few shades of brown, maroon here, and a hint of navy blue there, but all the rest was BLACK. Wincing, Hermione selected a black robe, one that had silver-lined cuffs and hints of decorative silver thread. All her Gryffindorian morals stopped her from tearing a hole in the back, wrinkling it, or spoling it in any way. She sighed.

*              *              *              *

When Draco emerged from the bathroom, he was wearing nothing save for a fluffy white towel wrapped around his waist. He seemed unfazed by this.

Hermione blushed furiously, gave a little squeak, and hid behind the bed. She felt the blood rush to her face, feeling her cheeks turn pink and very heated indeed in the space of a few seconds. 

… Malfoy naked from the waist up. Malfoy wearing nothing but a towel. Malfoy with his sleek, blond hair hanging loosely across his face, surrounded by steam clouds smelling of sweet lavender. The image would stick in Hermione's mind forever.

"Hattie!" he yelled. This surprised Hermione. Did he call all his House-elves by name? How … strangely decent. "Where are my dress robes?"

"On your bed, s-sir."

"Oh. I see. And where are you?"

"B-behind the bed, sir."

He approached to look, much to Hermione's despair. "What are you doing down there?"

"Um." Hermione thought quickly. "Dusting."

He snorted. "You're one peculiar House-elf, you know." He headed off, picking up his robes, and disappeared behind a dressing screen. Presently, the white towel draped itself upon the screen.

Hermione breathed normally once more. That was bizarrely infuriating.

When Draco emerged, his hair was smoothed back, and, to Hermione's relief, he was fully clothed.

"Well, come along, Hattie," he muttered. "My _parents_ wouldn't want me late."

There, Hermione thought. There was the sneer. When he said, 'parents'.

*              *              *              *

Dinner has never looked so lavish. Or so expensive.

The Dining Room was spectacular in all its grandeur, which was precisely the image the Malfoys wanted to project. A dining table long enough to fit in a tennis court stretched from end to another, lined with an assortment of different delicacies served on golden plates and platters. Along its immense length were candelabras spaced apart, made from the purest silver, burning twisting stalks of wax. And, overlooking everything was an extravagant, brilliantly sparkling chandelier, and a tapestry of the Malfoy's family crest hanging upon the wall.

The real Malfoys stood underneath this all, looking unperturbed.

Lucius looked majestic and terrifyingly apathetic. Narcissa looked beautiful and regal, her dress, makeup and hair flattering as usual. The Parkinsons, on the other hand, tried their best to look indifferent and aloof while admiring the surroundings and being intimidated by Lucius. They didn't seem to be doing very well.

When Draco entered the Dining Room, with Hermione trailing behind, many different things happened, one after the other.

First of all, Lucius muttered, "Late, Draco."

Pansy Parkinson, who had been sitting closest to the door, grinned wildly and squealed, "Draco!" like a five year-old would cry, "Ice-cream!"

And Narcissa Malfoy, who had, at first, been sitting quietly and politely like any decent hostess, suddenly erupted into violent screaming fits, knocking her chair over, and shrieking at the top of her lungs, "MUDBLOOD! I SMELL MUDBLOOD! THERE'S A MUDBLOOD IN THIS ROOM!"

*              *              *              *


	4. Four: The Revelation

My Life As a House-Elf

Chapter Four – The Revelation

*          *            *            *

Narcissa's normally perfect hair was askew, hanging loosely across her face in very unglamorous tendrils. She was seething. Her mascara-lined eyes were opened wide and were gazing across the room wildly, her perfectly manicured, painted fingers held like claws. "Where is it?!" she muttered throatily, her voice low and threatening. "Where is the Mudblood scum?!"

Lucius got up and calmly took his wife's forearm. "Not in front of the guests, Narcissa," he said. His voice was quiet and subtle, yet seemed to calm her.

"It's no matter," she said pleasantly, sitting down graciously once more, straightening her hair and adjusting the folds of her skirt. "It's gone now."

Which was very well, since Hermione had pelted away from the room in a rush of panic. _How does Narcissa KNOW?_ She asked herself, leaning against a wall for support. _How does she know there's a Mudblood in the room? Unless she can somehow sense it …_

Gathering up her courage, Hermione edged closer to the Dining Room, leaning against the doorframe, careful not to step any closer. She listened.

"Forgive my wife," Lucius apologized serenely, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. "She happens to be a Seer. Some people might call her psychic. But unlike all those _common_ clairvoyant duplicates who can only predict the future, Narcissa has the extraordinary talent to detect those of tainted blood in the surrounding area. Isn't that right, Narcissa?"

"It smelled foul," she agreed, scrunching up her pretty features. "I'm relieved it's gone now."

The Parkinsons looked stunned. Apparently, this was the first time they had seen Narcissa display her particular talent. "Ah, well," Mr. Parkinson said, blinking. "What a very … _practical_ talent, Narcissa."

"Quite sensible, for us of pure blood," Mrs. Parkinson agreed. "To be able to sense the presence of any nearby Mudbloods. Honestly, they must be eradicated, impure things they are."

Those at the table nodded in unified agreement.

Hermione's temper began to simmer. But she wisely said nothing, listening in to the conversation in hope of obtaining more information, no matter how unwelcoming it seemed.

"Which reminds me," Lucius said, his voice gaining a slight hint of foreboding. Everyone at the table instantly snapped to attention. "Narcissa … when did you notice this trace of Mudblood?"

She glanced at her son. "When Draco entered the room," she said quietly.

Draco became aware of all the sudden stares hovering above him. Calmly meeting as many gazes as he could in one stare, he asked, "Yes?"

"Draco," Lucius said, his voice terrifyingly calm and frighteningly ominous, tinged with the slightest trace of subtle disapproval. "Care to explain?"

It wasn't a question. It was a demand, and Draco knew better than to refuse it. "I suppose it's from my House-elf," he explained.

Hermione sucked in a breath, suddenly feeling light-headed. _No, no, please no_, she begged to no one in particular. Rocking slightly, terrible visions of what would happen to her if her secret were discovered flashed before her eyes. _Oh, please, no_ …

"She was handling a _tainted_ cloak earlier today. The silly creature must have forgotten to wash her hands," Draco continued.

"Ask it to simmer its hands in boiling water," Lucius said casually, in a very cavalier manner. "And burn that cloak. We can buy you a new one, Draco."

Hermione released the breath she had been holding. A bead of sweat trickled down her forehead, which she hastily wiped away in relief. They thought it was the _cloak_. No matter how much she detested the idea, she owed Draco a life.

She glanced back in the room. Narcissa and Mrs. Parkinson were engaged in a conversation about the McNairs, and Lucius and Mr. Parkinson in a conversation about the Goyles. Pansy Parkinson was looking very much like a contented puppy, clinging onto Draco's arm and gazing at him with jelly brown eyes.

Hermione stared at Draco. He seemed strangely calm, quiet, engaged in deep thought. He ignored Pansy's batting eyelashes and attempts to play footsie underneath the table, poking at his dinner thoughtfully, as if he could read his fate in the mushroom-lined depths of his soup bowl.

Once, he glanced at the door, eyes narrowed. Hermione dashed out of sight. The watchful, knowing look in his stormy grey stare unnerved her slightly.

"Draco," Pansy chirped, smiling brightly.

He looked up, looking extremely tired.

"Isn't it fun that we're both together this summer?" Pansy continued, stirring her spoon in her untouched soup, head leaning in her palm, eyes twinkling flirtatiously. "I'm so glad to be here. The carriage ride was so dusty and boring –" (it was at this point Draco stopped listening and entertained his thoughts instead) "– and it all seemed to last forever … but I'm finally here, with you, and I'm ever so happy. Aren't you, Draco?"

He didn't bother looking up. "Yes, evidently."

Pansy continued, now that she was on a roll. "Your manor is becoming somewhat like my manor, you know. I can feel right at home here. I always look forward to staying here throughout the entire summer."

"Like you do every summer," Draco mumbled, face frowned in deeper thoughts.

"Yes, of course!" Pansy replied, smiling. "Like I do _every_ summer." No one but Hermione noticed the shrewd gleam in Pansy's eye, and the slight tug at the edge of her mouth, the beginnings of a sly grin.

*          *            *            *

It was nearly midnight when Draco staggered into his room.

Hermione watched as he, completely oblivious to his surroundings, reached into the laundry basket and threw the offending, midnight blue cloak into the steadily burning fire. She watched as he emptied his pockets, throwing a gauze handkerchief, a pink paper flower corsage, and a several scraps of paper scrawled with excerpts from love poems – presents from Pansy – into the roaring flame, and crashed unceremoniously onto his four-poster bed, apparently worn out.

Nothing happened for a few seconds. The room was silent save for the crackling fire and the occasional hoot from Draco's perched eagle owl.

"Hattie," Draco muttered, voice muffled through layers of cushions.

Hermione's eyes widened. "Yes, sir?"

"Tomorrow, be sure to immerse your hands in boiling water. I'm too tired to make sure you do it now."

She shuddered slightly. "Yes, sir."

With that, Draco rolled over, and, still in his dress robes, promptly fell asleep.

*          *            *            *

Hermione lay curled upon a couch. She was listening to the silence, unable to sleep, watching the stars roll slowly and silently across the sky.

Her thoughts drifted from one thing to another, finally coming to rest on the thought of her parents. Hermione could imagine them, worried and frantic, scouring the neighbourhood, looking fruitlessly for her. She realized, with a sickening twist of guilt, she had set off for Knockturn Alley without their permission. They had no idea she was in the wizarding world. And they had no way to get there, they were Muggles. Hermione realized, with a terrible sinking feeling settling in her gut, they had no wands to tap against the wall of the Leaky Cauldron, or Floo Powder to travel with. She felt very, very cold all of a sudden, and awfully alone.

_What am I going to do?_ She thought. She glanced out the nearby window, searching the stars for an answer. The moon hovered above, shrouded behind a veil of clouds, watching from its lofty perch, terribly silent. Hermione sunk into despair … two slender, salty tears trickled from her slowly closing eyes down her cheek, down towards the nape of her neck.

A sudden feeling of electricity dancing upon her skin caused her eyes to dart open. The moon, she observed, had emerged from its cloak of gossamer cloud, its brilliant, ether light falling gently upon her skin …

… which was slowly beginning to change.

Hermione watched in shocked fascination as her faintly green, speckled skin began to alter, morphing into her familiar fair, pastel flesh in the moonlight. Her bony House-elf digits shifted into her regular fingers, ones that she used so often to flip through magical dictionaries or delicately hold a quill while writing an essay …

Hermione became faintly aware of her legs becoming lengthier and suppler, her toes stretching forth to brush against the plush carpet below, and her bushy, mouse-brown hair falling softly across her shoulders.

_Oh my god_, she thought in ecstatic wonderment, hardly daring to hope. _I'm human again_.

She spend a full few minutes staring at her restored hands, breathing sharply, a smile slowly spreading across her face. She felt her heart pound against her chest in a fast-paced crescendo, caught in her ecstatic chant, _I'm human, I'm human, I'm human_ …

 "_Hey_ …"

Hermione turned, startled. She met the rather quizzical, questioning glare of Draco Malfoy, who sitting up in his bed and looking very much awake.

It was then Hermione became aware of what she was wearing. To her extreme horror, she was still wearing the House-elf pillowcase, and it barely covered what was necessary. With a strangled cry, she reached for the nearest piece of fabric – a rug – and wrapped it around herself, blushing furiously. Draco gaped in utter speechlessness.

This lasted for several tense seconds, in which the two of them stared at each other, minds completely blank.

It was Draco who spoke first. "Would you mind explaining why you're in my bedroom, and half-naked for that matter?"

Hermione blushed furiously with embarrassment and indignation. "Well, I –"

"And what have you done to my House-elf?" he asked, in slight irritation. "You haven't killed her or anything, you stupid Mudblood, she cost us Ninety Galleons –"

"Shut up, Malfoy," Hermione snapped. "I haven't done anything to your House-elf. I _am_ your House-elf."

*          *            *            *

[A/N: Thank you _enormously _to those who reviewed for the last few chapters. I've received some feedback and suggestions from various reviewers, and I would like to take this opportunity to reply to them:

**RoseBookends:** Wow. Thank you for an extremely flattering review (grin). As for original characters, does Topsy count as one? (heheh) I'll probably have a few original bit characters, because the last time I created a character for a major role, she turned out to be a Mary-Sue (shudder). It happened many moons ago though, and I will make sure it won't happen again anytime soon. Thanks for the suggestion, though. I'll put it into serious consideration.

**L. Meylan:** I know how you feel about Pansy. I've always wanted to create a Pansy Parkinson that wasn't two-dimensional or a ditz in any way, but I never found the occasion. I originally wrote this fic to concentrate more on Hermione and Draco, as well as to address the concerns of SPEW and House-elf liberation. But after thinking about your suggestion, I re-wrote this chapter to give Pansy a little space and now plan to give her a slightly major role in this fic. Thanks!

I would also like to ask a trivial little question to those who have read the fic so far: Should I make the chapters longer, shorter, or keep them the way they are?

Thank you …!]


	5. Five: The Enchantment

My Life As a House-Elf

Chapter Five – The Enchantment

*              *              *              *

Draco stood still and stared, dazedly trying to grasp hold of the situation. He was dreaming, he thought, and this was a caught in a terrible, incredibly vivid nightmare. His House-elf was missing and his father was probably going to blame him, and Hermione Granger was in his bedroom, dressed in nothing but a rug and bathed in soft shafts of moonlight. And the worst part was, he was beginning to find the situation strangely appealing.

"What are you doing in my room?" he asked, sounding annoyed, suspicious and bemused at the same time.

"I told you," Hermione said crossly, her temper flaring. "I'm your House-elf."

"If you insist." A smirk slowly curled up Draco's lip. He found himself slowly seizing control of the situation. "I normally have half-dressed girls in my bedroom, actually. I never expected _you_, though …"

"Shut up!" Hermione nearly shrieked. "This is _not_ what you think." She paused, taking a deep breath, and straightened her hair. "First, I need some clothes. And then," she shot a poisonous glare at Draco, "I'll tell you why I'm here."

"You do that, Granger," Draco said, scowling slightly. He was beginning to think she was there for a much more sinister motive. The Malfoys had enough enemies to be considered an endangered species, and what better way to settle a score with an old enemy than murder the heir of the fortune in his own bed? Draco reached underneath his pillow for his wand, threw a cautionary glance at Hermione, and made his way towards the wardrobe.

Hermione watched as he flung the doors open. "Nothing _black_, thank you," she said primly, her voice subtly hostile. "It seems your wardrobe doesn't consist of any other colour."

"Tough luck," he said, tossing her a black bathrobe, with the letters _DM_ monogrammed in silver near the collar. Hermione caught it, and, throwing an aggravated glance at Draco, she quietly made her way to the dressing screen. She didn't bother thanking him. The bemused smile he wore on his face was just inviting a severe slap.

*              *              *              *

"So," Draco summarized, "You broke a few very valuable, very expensive goblin-crafted potion bottles, the simpleton cursed you to spend your life as a House-elf, you were auctioned off, Father bought you and you're now my personal servant to command."

Hermione spun around sharply. "I am not!"

Draco ignored her statement, and carried on, "So that explains why Mother was detecting Mudblood traces everywhere. It was _you_." He threw her a glance, gazing from underneath his slightly closed eyelids. "I knew I suspected something."

"Well, now," Hermione deduced, tightening the cord around her waist, "the curse is obviously over, so I'll bother your dear mummy no more with unpleasant smells. I'm leaving. Do you have any Floo Powder?"

Draco was silent. He was staring at her in a very unnerving way, his face expressionless, yet his eyes glittering with something more sinister. Hermione shivered slightly, strongly reminded of wolves in that stare. "What?" she demanded.

"I don't think you're leaving," Draco uttered suddenly.

Hermione gaped. "Excuse me? I'd _love_ to stay longer in your charming little hellhole, Malfoy, but I have better things to do than play nurse to a spoilt brat like you. _Now where is the Floo Powder?!_"

"There is no Floo Powder," he answered simply, voice distantly calm. "The fireplaces in Malfoy Manor cannot access the Floo Network except with the presence of a Malfoy. The exits and entrances are guarded by thirteen different hexes and curses that cannot be disabled by anyone but a Malfoy. You cannot get in – or out – without someone of Malfoy lineage."

Hermione's shocked stare slowly melted into one of threat and menace. "Then you will help me," she murmured, her voice low and threatening, close to a growl.

A slow, sinister smirk curled around Draco's lip. "I'd rather not, you know."

Hermione stepped closer to the bed. She took subtle pleasure in seeing Draco flinch and slowly back away. "You _will_ help me," she cried, her voice close to a shriek, "or I'll make you."

Draco shook his head calmly. "You forget who has the wand here, Granger," he flicked his wand as if to accentuate this. "Besides, what makes you think your curse is over?"

Hermione was so stunned by the absurdity of this question, she was rendered speechless for a few seconds. "Maybe you haven't noticed," she gasped, "but look – human arms, human limbs, human fingers, and the sheer absence of abnormally large ears … do I _look_ like a House-elf to you?"

Draco raised an eyebrow. "I wouldn't say I agree with you about the ears, but no."

"There you go, then."

"But," Draco interjected, "what makes you think you will remain a human tomorrow morning? Who knows … you could be a human by night, a House-elf by day. Some curses work that way, you know," he added, as if emphasizing Hermione's lack of observation.

Hermione was rendered speechless once again. She tried to grasp hold of her words, but instead found herself losing her grip on reality. Everything Malfoy said could be right. She wasn't cured … yet. Even if she got to Diagon Alley, there wasn't any chance anyone would recognize her. Not as a House-elf.

Draco's voice brought her crashing back into reality. "Besides," he said, "if my Father found you gone tomorrow morning, I will be punished for losing another House-elf." His grin was sly, and wicked. "And I like the idea of having the smartest girl in Hogwarts as my personal servant."

"I am _not_!" Hermione said hotly. "_If_ there's a remote chance that I'm a House-elf tomorrow, I will not follow any of your stupid demands. It's about time the House-elves were treated accordingly," she added with a huff. "No longer will they be treated like slaves. I'll make sure they have their own rights."

"House-elf rights?" Draco nearly fell out of his bed laughing. "Has the curse affected your brain, Granger? Because I thought you said something about House-elves having rights."

"Yes, I did," Hermione insisted, growing more and more impatient and irritated with each passing second. She looked away in a flurry of pure disdain. "Of course you wouldn't understand. You're an insensitive, selfish brat who cares for nothing but himself. I'd pity you, Malfoy, but the mood is gone."

Draco dismissed her statement with a wave of his hand. "It works for me."

They stood in mutual silence, Hermione slowly simmering like a low fire dancing upon hot coals, Draco steadily encasing himself in a layer of cold, like gathering hoarfrost on the first night of winter. Neither one of them spoke for a very long time.

Hermione seated herself upon a plush, velvet couch. "Well. I'm staying awake till morning, thank you. I want to determine if the curse is over." She threw Draco a warning glance. "But if I stay human … you're going to help me get out of here, Malfoy. I don't think your parents will appreciate the fact that you have a Mudblood witch in your bedroom."

He waved his hand, smiling slightly. "Of course. I'll wait with you." He didn't add what would happen if it happened otherwise.

*              *              *              *

Hermione found herself leaning drowsily on the couch after a few hours of waiting, head leaning on the back of her hand as she stared out the window. The stars rolled across the dark horizon, gathering in the west, the moon descending steadily from her lofty perch. Hermione became faintly aware of Draco moving around in the room, and heard the gentle clinking of glass.

She felt a tap on her shoulder. Looking up, she saw Draco, holding two glass goblets in hand, and a clear bottle of translucent, rose-red liquid. "Have some," he said quietly, pouring the liquid into one of the glasses. "It keeps the senses awake. You wouldn't want to fall asleep while waiting for your curse to be lifted, wouldn't you?"

He saw the doubtful, suspicious look on her face. "Don't worry," he smiled. "It's not poison. It wouldn't really help to have a dead body in my room, wouldn't it?" And, as if to reassure her, he poured himself a glass of the elixir and took a sip.

Hermione stared cautiously into her goblet. Blinking slightly, she took a sip, and felt her senses buzz awake. It was like Butterbeer, except with more electricity, and with less taste. Like white wine compared to beer, she thought. She shook out her hair, feeling the electricity course down the ends of her tresses.

Draco seated himself comfortably on the couch next to her, sipping his elixir calmly, reclining slightly into the plush fabric. He was staring off into space. Hermione slowly became aware of how close they were sitting, so near to each other without touching. Draco seemed oblivious to this. Hermione stood her ground, feeling the elixir's strange effects course through her … electrical currents dancing down her spine, and a deep warmth slowly spreading across her body, before she slowly edged away. The sensation gradually faded.

After a few more hours of silent waiting, the sun peeked from behind the soda-coloured hills, stretching pale shafts of light across the violet sky, chasing away the darkness. 

Hermione felt a jolt against her body. To her horror, her pale skin was gaining a slight greenish tinge, mottled in parts, and she felt herself shrinking down to a smaller size. Her hair shrank back as if it was never there, and her ears stretched pass their usual length, tapering to a point.

She stared in horrified despair at her hands, then at Draco's knowing half-smile.

"Good morning, Hattie," he grinned.

*              *              *              *

[A/N: All right, nothing much happened here. The main theme in this chapter is the genuine … uh, _chemistry_ between Hermione and Draco. How they can bicker and fight without getting too severe. Heh. Like a married couple (insert the sound of a thousand anti-romance buffs retching). But I promise, more action and cliffhangers in the coming chapters. Look out for the beginnings of the House-elf Revolution, murderous plots, bedroom romps (not what you think), surprising discoveries, mushroom soup, a birthday, and morbid chimneys, not necessarily in that order. If things go according to plan (usually they don't), we'll have Epic Lucius by the 11th Chapter (crosses fingers).

**To Katie:** Thanks for the suggestion (grin). Actually, I had that idea in mind before I started the story. But thanks for reviewing.]


	6. Six: The Episodes of My Enslavement

My Life As a House-Elf   
Chapter Six: The Episodes of My Enslavement 

*           *            *            *           

"I don't understand it," Hermione said, her voice crushed. She was staring down at her speckled, moss green hands, her expression etched in utter despair. 

"Like I said, some curses work that way," Draco said from behind the dressing screen. His voice was slightly muffled as he held the hem of his robes in his mouth as he struggled with his pants. "Human by night, House-elf by day. No more different than your normal life, Granger. And you're a House-elf now. Act like one." 

The day that followed didn't really agree to Hermione's standards. For one, she was forced to follow Draco around as he walked throughout Malfoy Manor, when she'd rather stay as far away from him as possible. He rushed through each room – library, Fountain Pavilion, drawing room, study – in a busy rush, collecting and dropping off items accordingly as if he were participating in a bizarre scavenger hunt. Hermione grumbled as she tagged along behind him, struggling to keep up with his heady pace. 

Secondly, she had to follow his every command – ("Carry _this, Hattie … Fetch __that, will you?") – and it was beginning to wreck her nerves. _

"Can't you get it yourself?" Hermione snapped. 

They were in the Ornamental Gardens. The Malfoys had a trained team of gardeners to keep every hedge clipped, every gravel path raked, every topiary bush in shape, every fishpond cleaned. The plots of carpet grass were lined with rock formations and miniature fountains, and bordered with flowering shrubs and willows, shining brilliantly underneath the summer sun. Clouds rolled lazily overhead like a herd of airborne sheep. 

Draco was lounging underneath the canopy of a rose-covered gazebo, comfortably reading a book underneath the dappled sunlight. He lazily turned a glance in Hermione's direction. "Granger, I'm not going all the way to the Fountain Pavilion to get myself a meagre little book._ That's what House-elves are for. Now, go, fetch." He waved his hand in a shooing motion, returning once more to the pages of his book. _

"I'm not your _dog," she interjected, crossing her arms. _

Draco looked around. His eyes scanned the gardens, peering across the willow trees lining the pond, towards the gravel paths. "No, no. Of course not. But I think you'd better go," he suggested, his voice strangely calm. Hermione expected him to lose his temper and start flaring, but his cool tone only succeeded to aggravate her instead. 

Hermione tried to look in the direction he was staring, but her weak House-elf eyesight didn't reveal much. "What? Why?" 

"My Mother's on her way here." 

Indeed, she was. Hermione could audibly hear Narcissa's vocal, musical chatter as she strolled down the paths. She was talking to Mrs. Parkinson. Hermione winced, ducked slightly, and made her way to the Manor. She didn't want to be anywhere near the gardens when Narcissa started shrieking about Mudbloods. 

"Don't forget to bring my book," Draco called. He smiled, shifted into a more comfortable position, and traced the paragraph of the book he currently held in hand. 

_Oh, I'll fetch it for you, Hermione thought crossly. __Torn in a million pieces, I will. _

*           *            *            *

Draco watched darkly as Hermione stormed towards the Manor. She trampled a few poor daises and ferns on her way as a way to release her irritation, and Draco winced. He sighed impatiently. Her stubbornness was starting to annoy him. The novelty of having Hermione Granger, the Mudblood wonder, as his personal servant was beginning to wear thin. He greatly considered replacing her – let the poor Mudblood fend for herself in the great House-elf-hostile wilderness – but after carelessly freeing his previous House-elf in a fit of rage, Draco was sure he wouldn't be getting anymore after losing another one. He merely sighed inwardly, resisted the urge to clout Hermione on the head with his book, and looked down at the page. 

"_Dark Sight_ –" the book read, "one of the most powerful spells in the Dark Arts. Allows the wizard to see past far distances, through walls, and sometimes, for those exceptionally skilled Dark Arts, into the minds of other people. Incantation as follows …" the paragraph was soon followed by a line of strange symbols, that seemed to be scrawled with a broken quill in red ink, as if it were written in blood. The characters looked venomous. Draco traced the line with his finger, and followed it as he muttered, "_Oculanmilucifurus." A bright flash of light passed through his eyes, and he was rendered blind for a few moments while the spell took effect. _

Effortlessly, he could see into Hermione's mind. She was thinking of him. Quite a lot, he realized, and her thoughts also seemed to involve sharp objects and explosive jinxes. _She does have quite an imagination, he thought, smiling. __And I always thought she was such a nice, well-behaved Gryffindor. He spent quite a while eavesdropping on Hermione's vicious thoughts of revenge, amusing himself. _

Suddenly, to Draco's surprise, Hermione's thoughts abruptly changed tracks. _But I must pity the poor boy, she thought with faint disgust. __He's all alone in this huge, cold Manor, surrounded by easily bullied House-elves, almost nonexistent parents, empty halls, and has an extremely dull person for a girlfriend. No wonder he's so touchy. I wish I could help him some way … her last through trailed whimsically, as if she were thinking over it. _

Draco's slight surprise made him lose control of the spell. Rocking slightly, his vision slowly came into focus. Hermione's vivid thoughts faded away into the sounds of the garden … a robin chirped in the rose bushes, the breeze whispered through the rustling tree branches overhead. A frog croaked from the lake nearby. Draco was left alone, once more, with nothing but his silent thoughts to muse over. He came to realize, with increasing wonder, how true Hermione's words rang. He was alone. The Manor wasn't his house, but his prison. He felt strangely disturbed, as if it was _his privacy that someone had unrightfully violated. _

As he tried to cast his concentration once more onto his studies, his thoughts kept on straying from the Dark incantations to Hermione's words, that seemed to ring stronger than any shadowy spell. 

*           *            *            * 

Hermione made her way past the hallways, the portrait galleries, up the Grand Staircase and through the Main Hall, ignoring, if she could, the splendour around her. 

The Malfoys definitely knew how to decorate. All their décor was designed to impress and intimidate those who needed to be impressed and intimidated. The favorite building materials consisted mainly of pine, mahogany, ebony and massive amounts of marble, with frivolous touches of gold leaf, jade, ivory and crystal. Every room had its own ensemble, colour scheme or decoration theme, and as Hermione made her way through the furnished hallways and corridors, she felt increasing awe and jealousy. 

_That statue must've cost a few thousand Galleons, Hermione thought, staring at a marble statue of a unicorn, which changed positions every five minutes, the authentic horn on its forehead glimmering in the sunlight. __Or perhaps hundreds of thousands. Where do the Malfoys get all their money? _

"Excuse me…" 

Hermione turned around, startled. She stared momentarily into two huge eyes just like hers, only more jumpy and more anxious. It was Topsy. 

"Is Hattie doing anything right now?" Topsy asked, twisting the hem of her tea-towel robe doubtfully. "We need help in the Grand Gallery." 

Hermione thought of Draco. He'd probably want his book straight away, still waiting down in the gardens for it to be delivered. "No. I'm not doing anything." 

Topsy gave _her a relieved smile. "Oh, good. There is something stuck in the Gallery chimney. We need to get it unstuck. Master Malfoy wants it done now." _

_Probably a stork's nest, Hermione thought, following Topsy down the hallway. She barely walked a few steps when she noticed a bruise on Topsy's head. _

"Topsy … how did you get that?" Hermione pointed to the rather spectacular bruise upon her companion's head. "You didn't bump against something, did you?" 

Topsy looked down guiltily. "No, Hattie. Topsy had been bad. Topsy had brought Master Malfoy chamomile tea instead of Earl Grey tea yesterday, and Master Malfoy punished Topsy with his cane." 

Hermione narrowed her eyes. "Who, Lucius?" 

Topsy's face turned as white as a bed sheet. "Please, Hattie, we call him Master Malfoy. We do not –" 

"He hit you. With his cane." 

"Topsy had been very bad, Hattie, Topsy deserved it …" 

"You certainly did not!" Hermione stopped in her tracks, and stared Topsy directly in the eye. "Anyone could've made that mistake, Topsy, _anyone. You don't deserve to be punished so severely for confusing different types of tea –" _

"After Topsy was punished," she sniffed, close to tears, "Topsy knocked her head against a pillar. Topsy knew she had been very bad, Topsy had to punish herself …" 

Hermione stared, gaping in disbelief. "Why would you want to do _that?" she gasped breathlessly. _

Topsy sniffled, dabbing her eyes with the tea towel. They continued walking. "Topsy had been very bad," she repeated. "Oh, friend Hattie, let us not be reminded of awful times. Now Topsy must serve Master Malfoy better and be an improved House-elf…" 

Hermione was so stunned by this she uttered nothing for the next five seconds. Before she could launch herself into a speech about justice and freedom, Topsy muttered, "We're here," and scurried in through a pair of massive, twin oak doors. 

They were in a huge Gallery. A beautiful, swan-shaped chandelier hovered above their heads, reflected perfectly in the black and white marble floor. The walls were lined with golden suits of armour, and the pillars were draped with red fabric, and dozens of paintings hung upon the walls, stretching right up to the painted mural on the ceiling. Lucius Malfoy stood in the centre of it all, looking very grand indeed. 

A team of House-elves was struggling with ropes and hooks to free something from the chimney. Another team of House-elves was bustling around with brushes and dustpans, sweeping up the soot and ashes that were scattered in the struggle. 

"Where have you been?" Lucius demanded impatiently, staring disdainfully down at Topsy. "You've been late enough." He gave her a harsh kick in the side, sending her sprawling across the marble floor. "Don't do it again." 

Hermione stared in seething rage as Topsy miserably picked herself up from the floor, whimpering as she joined the others at the chimney. Eyes blazing, Hermione glared at Lucius. "It isn't her fault!" she insisted angrily. 

Lucius shot her a wintry stare. "And, pray tell, whose is it?" 

Hermione paused for a moment. "It was my fault. I- it was I. I delayed her." Trembling ever so slightly, she raised her chin an inch, trying to stare defiantly at Lucius from a height of three feet. 

Lucius narrowed his eyes. "You're that new House-elf aren't you?" he asked. Before Hermione could answer, he continued, "Yes, yes. I believe so. I'll remind Draco to punish you accordingly for your impudence. It's about time the boy takes the responsibility of punishing his own elves instead of carelessly setting them free. Now go join the rest at the chimney." 

Hermione did her best to look stormy as she trudged towards the fireplace. Topsy was holding onto one rope, crying, "Heave!" with the others as they pulled. 

"Here," a young male House-elf handed Hermione a rope. "Don't forget to pull when we say, 'Heave'." 

"Right," Hermione muttered, staring at the rope. As the elves prepared themselves for the next pull, she brushed off any feelings of uncertainty, braced herself, and … 

"_Heave!" _

After a few strenuous tugs, whatever was stuck in the flue was suddenly wrenched free, under the combined effort of about a dozen House-elves. Soot and dust flew everywhere. The House-elves, panicked, scattered to escape the dust-cloud, leaving tiny footprints in the ash-strewn marble. 

"Stop!" Lucius' order rang through the Gallery like thunder. "Bring the thing out." 

The House-elves paused in their tracks, before five of original team tentatively scuttled towards the fireplace, where a huge black lump lay rather unattractively in the charred logs and mounds of dust. It didn't look like a stork's nest, it looked too … solid. Against the burnt blackness of the fireplace, the _thing looked like a burnt black rock, covered in scorched cloth. _

The House-elves pulled the ropes, sliding the black bundle across the marble floor. It wasn't distinguishable at first. But then, it began to unfurl as it approached closer towards Lucius, unfolding like a rather unattractive flower. Hermione stifled a scream. 

It was a human carcass. She stared in increasing horror as the House-elves dragged out the charred remains of what was once human across the floor, its blackened face in perpetual terror, mummified in layers of ash. 

*           *            *            * 

[A/N: I would love to thank **Katie** from FictionAlley.org for BETA-reading for me. Thanks for saving me a great deal of embarrassment, and offering all sorts of useful comments, and looking out for my numerous grammatical and spelling mistakes. Where would the world be without BETAs, I ask you? :D  
To **pigger**: You asked for more Draco, here's more Draco! LOL ... Thanks for all the encouragement, by the way! Look forward to chatting with you again. :)

I've read a few reviews from those who didn't understand the previous chapter. The reason I wanted Hermione human by night is because she's bound by House-elf morals and psyche by day to obey her 'master', though she doesn't realize it. Human form gives her a bit of freedom. But only at night ... which is pretty convenient condsidering most of the household is asleep then. Also (heheh) this fic is supposed to have a Draco/Hermione sub-plot. He can't really (ahem) fall for her if she's constantly in House-elf form now, can he?  
If it still bothers those who aren't sailing the D/Hr ship, ask yourself: In the story of the Swan Princess, why was Princess Odette swan by day and human by night? Didn't the evil sorcerer see some flaw in his spell, that he can't really enchant the girl to stay in her animal form long enough for the prince not to rescue her?  
Sorry. Heh. Well, review if you might, leave helpful feedback! :) ]


	7. Seven: The Episodes of My Enslavement, A...

My Life As a House-elf  
Chapter Seven – The Episodes of My Enslavement, Act Two

* * * *

"It could very well be a thief," Mr. Parkinson suggested. 

The Malfoys and the Parkinsons had gathered in the Forest Gardens, discussing their rather gruesome find, sitting upon the white lawn chairs, sipping tea, or, in Lucius' case, wine. They were surrounded by the gold and amber foliage of oak and maple, their voices threading through the emerald green spires of pine. 

"What I mean," Mr. Parkinson continued, "there are a million things in this household that is worth stealing. The statues, the paintings –" 

"I don't think it's the valuables they want," Lucius muttered darkly. Everyone turned to look at him, quietening down instantaneously to listen to his voice. A light breeze whispering through the overhanging oak branches was the only thing to interrupt the silence that accompanied Lucius' statement. "The thief crept in, seeing an unlit fireplace, saw it as a perfect opportunity to enter the Manor, oblivious to the Inferno Hex laced around the vent …" 

_And was blown up the chimney in a searing jet of fire, Hermione finished, shuddering slightly. She crouched among the bushes near the table, close enough to listen to the discussion, but far enough to be ignored by Narcissa's acute sense of smell. Her elfin ears picked up the conversation clearly. _

"He knew very well of the risks of breaking into Malfoy Manor," Lucius continued, running his finger along the rim of his wine glass. "It wasn't the statues, or the paintings, or the valuables in the drawing room that he wanted." 

"Then what?" Mr. Parkinson faltered, his voice crinkled underneath the weight of suspense. 

Lucius' voice was barely a whisper, but it cut through the still silence like a knife. "I suspect the thief had more permanent motives in mind." 

Narcissa stifled a gasp. "You mean someone wants to kill us?" she whispered breathlessly. Unconsciously, her hand darted to the silver necklace draped around her neck, fingering the pendant between her thumb and forefinger doubtfully. Hermione noticed that it glimmered strangely in the afternoon sunlight. "Why would anyone want to do that?" 

"It's much too complicated for you to comprehend, my dear," Lucius said casually. "Mostly it involves prestige, blackmail and family rivals." He cast a significant glance at the suddenly silent Parkinsons. 

Mr. Parkinson swallowed quickly, and rushed to say something. "Of course, we Parkinsons remain loyal to our companionship, Lucius," he exclaimed quickly. 

"We wouldn't dream of harming our dear friends," Mrs Parkinson said, releasing a short, nervous laugh. 

"Of course," Lucius replied. The note of suspicion laced within these two syllables hung ominously in the air.

* * * *

Hermione made her way to the Manor, deep in thought. Who was the unfortunate, would-be thief caught in the chimney? What did he – or probably she – want? Who had sent him? Were the Parkinsons involved? 

Her thoughts circulating around this particular topic, Hermione didn't realize she had entered the Fountain Pavilion and had unconsciously stepped towards the white, carved bench where Draco had left his book, and picked up the black, hardcover volume without realizing it. 

She stared at the book in hand. _I actually fetched it, she thought in looming disgust. __Like a puppy. Her face twisting in revulsion, she tossed the book into the carved, marble basin of one of the numerous, gilded fountains lined up in the Pavilion, staring in triumph as the book soaked in the crystalline jets of water, lying upon the base like an anemone as tiny, jewel-like fish darted through the pages. She felt awfully pleased with herself. _

A small voice interrupted her glorious mood. "Excuse me …" 

Hermione turned around, slightly alarmed. One of the House-elves that helped out in the Gallery stood behind her, looking uncertain. "Are you Hattie?" 

Her mouth opened and closed a few times, before she finally grasped the words to speak. "You didn't see me do that, did you?" 

He looked even more uncertain than ever. "Do what?" 

Hermione sighed. "Nothing. Yes, I'm Hattie. Who are you?" 

The House-elf hesitated for a while, before muttering, "My name is Gilly. Topsy has told us about you." 

Hermione blinked. "Us?" 

"The House-elves," Gilly swallowed. "Topsy told us that you … that you know Dobby, Master Malfoy's previous House-elf." 

Hermione's eyes brightened instantaneously. "Oh, yes! He works at Hogwarts, where I – where I used to work, in the kitchens," she fabricated hastily. "He's very happy there. _Very happy." _

"Does he …does he work for _wages?" Gilly shuddered slightly. _

Hermione nodded, eyes bright. "Oh, _yes_. He works for wages. And with his money, he can buy anything he wants. Food, presents …" 

Gilly's face looked as if he was about to say something dreadful. "Clothes?" he squeaked. 

"Yes," Hermione said with a firm nod. "_Clothes." _

The thin, dishevelled House-elf shivered slightly, as if the air around him had suddenly turned cold. "Alright," he said, his voice quivering a little. And then he abruptly spun around and left, as if he couldn't bear to hear anymore. But he turned once, casting Hermione a thoughtful glance, as if he was considering continuing the conversation. 

Hermione sighed. _Well. It's a start._

* * * *

Dinnertime. The Malfoys and the Parkinsons sat in the Dining Room, underneath the brilliant peacock chandelier, clinking crystal wine glasses together, selecting from thirteen different courses served on golden platters, arranging their meals upon painted china, and carving slices of turkey with silver cutlery. Meanwhile, down in the kitchens, the House-elves dined on what Hermione later called, "Pond Scum". 

They sat upon narrow, timber benches set in the lowest of the Malfoy's four kitchens, staring at the crude wooden bowl before her. It was filled with something green and bubbling and unattractively. Hermione lifted the spoon and saw, to her distaste, saw that the slop in the bowl stuck to it like taffy. 

House-elves were fed once every three days. They were hardy creatures. Hermione realized, to her surprise, that she hadn't eaten ever since her arrival to Malfoy Manor, feeling more compelled to complete tasks, and think about how she could break her curse. House-elves ate rarely. Looking at the slop being served, Hermione scrunched up her nose and felt the strong obligation to fast the next few more days. 

She turned to Gilly, who sat beside her, poking his meal uncertainly with his spoon. "You actually eat this slop?" she asked, in disbelief. 

Gilly nodded. "It's what the Masters serve us. We must eat it, or starve." With that, he delicately spooned a bit of the gruel into his mouth. Hermione swore his face turned greener than it normally was. Gilly swallowed with much difficulty, and, eyes slightly teary, he took another spoonful. 

"This is atrocious!" Hermione exclaimed, pounding the table. Her tiny fist didn't make much of an impact, but it caught the attention of Gilly and Topsy, as well as a few other House-elves who were sitting nearby. "They can't feed us _this," Hermione continued. She held a hand out towards the large bowl of gruel the elves were sharing. "It's disgusting and degrading. Why, up there, __they're dining on turkey and cakes! Why can't we?" _

The elves who were listening shifted uncomfortably in their seats and tried to look away, but Hermione was such a spectacle, they couldn't tear their attention away. She continued her speech, getting louder and more vehement as she went on. "Our _Masters treat us like __vermin, they feed us pigswill, and clothe us in dirty rags … are we going to take this any longer?" _

"Hattie," Topsy warned in a tinny, breathless voice. Her face was white. Hermione ignored her and stood upon the bench, more encouraged than ever. She had found her element. 

"We're not vermin! We're not to be treated like vermin! It's up to _us to make this clear to the world! We're gonna make them so sorry they won't even like it, and –" _

"House-elf Hattie?" a voice called from the kitchen entrance. Hermione turned and peered across the dimly lit room to see another young House-elf hanging uncertainly onto the door. He looked about the hall for 'Hattie', his eyes finally coming to rest on Hermione, who stood out starkly like a red poppy head in a field of white grain. "Master Draco needs his fireplace lit. He sent for Hattie." 

_Oh, perfect, Hermione thought in exasperation. Putting on a haughty tone, she snapped loudly, "Tell him to do it himself." _

The whole hall gasped. 

The House-elf, stunned by this remark, withered suddenly under the prospect of delivering this message to Draco, knowing exactly what awaited him if he didn't do his job as required. At the sight of his glazed, panic-stricken eyes, Hermione sighed and got down. "Oh, alright," she muttered. 

As she left the hall, murmurs erupted all over the tables, as each House-elf turned to his or her neighbour, chattering in low voices. 

"Hattie may be right, you know," Gilly stated. Topsy bit her lower lip uncertainly and twisted the hem of her tea towel. The chatter grew louder.

* * * *

Draco held the sopping wet, soggy book over the fireplace, growling under his breath. The black, hardcover volume shrivelled in the heat, and Draco knew that there wasn't any chance for the book to ever be perfect again. He threw a glance at the fire and turned around, casting a smouldering gaze behind him. Hermione sat upon a couch nearby, mending a tear in one of Draco's robes, the picture of sheer innocence. Once in a while she would look up and say candidly, "How's the book coming?" 

To which Draco would answer, through gritted teeth, "Fine. Just fine." He added, "It's strange how my book suddenly ended up at the bottom of a fountain basin, don't you think, Granger?" 

Hermione looked up, her face guiltless. "Oh, yes. Very." 

"Why do I have the sudden feeling that you're involved in this accident?" 

Hermione shrugged her tiny shoulders, and turned back towards her sewing. "I don't know." She swung her legs around in a more comfortable position, ignoring Draco's dagger-like stares. 

Hermione's incompetence was beginning to irritate Draco. When she came storming to his room after being called from the Elves' Dining Hall, demanding to know why she had been called in an annoyingly demanding voice, he greatly considered giving her the sock, which meant, in House-elfin tongue, being fired. She stared at him and he stared back, both tossing threats back and forth, aiming insults like one would throw darts. 

Draco greatly thought of getting rid of her. To hell with what Lucius thought, he wanted her _gone. But then he remembered what Hermione had thought of him that afternoon, when he saw into her mind with the spell of Dark Sight. Her notions interested Draco. He decided not to fire her, not just yet. Not till he found out what Hermione meant, anyway._

His thoughts stirred. Brought back to the present, Draco said, "It'll be midnight soon. I'm going to bed now, and probably won't be around to watch your spectacular transformation. So you can go flouncing about my room half-naked in private, if you like. Good night." 

With that, he placed the crinkled, slightly damp book on the mantelpiece, shed his heavy robes and climbed into bed, drawing the thick, velvet drapes around him like a lavish cocoon. After a while, the lack of movement and the soft rustling of bed sheets signified Draco had fallen silently asleep. 

Hermione sighed and set down her sewing. And waited.

* * * *

_"Keep your eyes on the Snitch. The Snitch is all that you see." _

Draco was dreaming. He was hovering over the Hogwarts Quidditch pitch, listening to the newly appointed Slytherin Quidditch captain, Julius Mallory, brief the team before practise began. He was addressing Draco. _"Keep your eyes in the Snitch. Never let it out of your sight. Chase it down as if your life depended on it." _

Draco knew he was dreaming. For one, the pitch was abnormally bright, as if it had been sprinkled on with luminescent powder. Secondly, he was riding atop an ancient Shooting Star instead of his Nimbus 2001, and it creaked and swayed beneath him, groaning with age. 

Julius turned to look directly at each team member. _"Don't you dare __disappoint me. We're going to win the Quidditch Cup this year no matter what, and if we don't, I'll tell Snape to lock you all in the dungeons tonight. Now, off with you!" _

The Slytherin team flew to their assigned positions, as Julius released the Quidditch balls onto the pitch. Draco caught sight of the Golden Snitch, glittering in the abnormally bright sunlight like a polished coin. He darted straight towards it. 

The chase was strangely realistic. He felt the wind whip against his face, streaming against his hair and blowing back his robes, the humming sound of air speeding around him buzzing continuously in his ear. The Snitch glittered before him. It spun sideways and under, and Draco would lunge at it, arm outstretched, reaching to grasp its fluttering wings. 

Suddenly, he was engulfed in a giant shadow. It completely blotted out the sun, casting a sheet of twilight upon Draco. He glanced up and saw the vast silhouette of a winged beast, its eyes glimmering an ominous red, its wing beats crashing furiously like thunder. It let out an unearthly shriek. Draco gasped. 

Forgetting utterly about the Snitch, Draco darted across the field, feeling the oppressing shadow following close behind him. The distance between them was closed in the space of a few seconds. Draco felt claws tear at his ankles, the high-pitched screams of the creature filling his ears like a siren. To Draco's increasing horror, the racing broom he was riding suddenly splintered into tiny wooden flakes, and he was falling, the Quidditch pitch below rushing up rapidly to crush his body. 

He glanced upwards. The sky had turned a mottled grey, casting a sinister, black light onto the beast as it grappled the hem of Draco's robes. It let out another shrill, unearthly scream, tearing the skies open with its cry. Draco gasped when he saw what it truly was. 

It was a Hippogriff. Like the one in his Third Year, that had nearly killed him, the one that that oaf Hagrid set upon him … but this one's feathers were an evil, jet black, and its beak was jagged like the serrated end of a knife. It cast one smouldering look from its fiery-red eyes and lunged forward. 

Draco woke with a start in his bed, throat raw from screaming.

* * * *

[A/N: Yes, Draco's nightmare and the charred corpse found in the chimney are interconnected. Bear this in mind: _All Will Be Revealed In Due Time_. Don't worry, I'll explain. Soon. : )  
So be patient! In the meantime, you can tell me what a sod I am by **reviewing!]**


	8. Eight: The Letter

My Life As A House-Elf –  
Chapter Eight: The Letter 

[A/N: Alright, I admit, nothing much happens in this one. I need to build a foundation before everything else takes shape. But I promise, in the next chapter, _everything_ will start happening. Patience has it rewards. ::grin::] 

* * * * 

Draco sat bolt upright in his bed, the sound of an inhuman, guttaral scream lingering in his head as the remnants of the nightmare were shattered. His eyes shot open and violently scanned the area, the cold, freezing darkness of his room hitting him like a wave. It took him several moments to calm down. When he did, his heart still raced – he had never felt so tense, or he thought, so cold. He reached uncertainly for the linen blankets. 

It was then he noticed two huge eyes staring at him from the shadows. He let out an alarmed cry, and then wished he hadn't. 

It was only Hermione. She was perched on the edge of his bed, looking at him with mixed emotions, her House-elf eyes huge and unblinking, seemingly resembling vast, clear millponds of liquid chocolate. 

There was fear in those eyes. And slight traces of confusion. And what was that … concern? 

"What happened?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper. Draco simply stared. 

Her voice was utterly devoid of hostility. Was she … worried? 

He coughed into his fist. "Nothing," he replied, and, to his mortification, he heard his voice emerge slightly shaky and throaty. "Nothing happened. Nightmare, that's all." He straightened the strands of hair that had fallen unspectacularly over his forehead, dampened with sweat. 

Hermione refused to believe it was any ordinary nightmare. She had watched, as he tossed and turned in his bed, his weak cries steadily growing in volume, before that scream, the inhuman, guttural cry that seemed to defy all aspects of sound … Hermione has never heard such fear, or such despair in any human voice. She stared sceptically at him, head cocked to one side. "You're crying," she stated simply, her voice soft. 

Draco reached uncertainly towards his face, his fingers brushing against the moist remnants of a few tears. He decided not to answer. He swept away the tears, licking away whatever stray droplets had fallen onto his lips. He drew his hand away and reached out uncertainly for the sheets. 

"You frightened me," Hermione continued, her voice hurt, as if he had done something unspeakable. Draco stared. He peered into those eyes and tried to find any trace of mockery, but withdrew, surprised to see that she had been completely honest. Her voice shook slightly when she spoke. 

"I what?" he asked, raising and eyebrow. "Frightened you?" he attempted humour to shatter the tense, alien atmosphere. "I'm not _that_ ugly when I sleep now, am I? My Mother told me I always looked like Cupid when I slept." He gave a quick, nervous laugh that betrayed his uneasiness. He disguised it as a cough. 

The frowning creases on Hermione's face vanished as she lifted her eyebrows. "You sounded as if you were being murdered, Cupid." She leapt from the edge of the bed, onto the ground below, her light, elfin feet barely making any sound. 

It was then Draco remarked, "You're still a House-elf." 

"Yes, it took you some time to notice," Hermione replied dryly from the shadows of the room. The familiar traces of hostility were back in her voice. Draco grinned and spoke to the darkness. 

"Oh, there isn't much difference between both your forms, actually. Why haven't you transformed yet? I heard you were scheduled for midnight, and it's …" he peered hesitantly into the darkness. "What time is it?" 

Hermione's disembodied voice snorted. "Half-past one," she said quietly, and sighed. "It's been bothering me all night! I just don't understand it. Why haven't I changed yet?" 

Draco prepared a rather cutting reply, but Hermione was completely hidden in the darkness of the room. He preferred to see the person he was about to nerve. "Where are you, by the way?" 

There was the sound of something light landing upon soft fabric. "I'm sitting on the couch. Can't you see me?" Hermione stressed the question, as if she were emphasizing Draco's poor eyesight. Her large House-elf eyes penetrated the gloom, and she could see him peering through the darkness, unable to see further than the edge of his bed. 

"It's too dark," he answered. "Open the drapes." 

She rolled her eyes and was planning to say, "Open them _yourself_," when a small spark went off inside her head, and lit up the gloom like a flame. "Of course," she breathed. "The drapes!" And she rushed off towards the covered windows, reaching her tiny hands towards the curtains and flung them open. 

"Yes, the drapes," Draco said, his voice slow as if he were talking to a slow child. "They cover the windows. And they're what's making the room so bloody dark in the first place." 

Hermione didn't answer. All her attention was being focused on the moon, and the bright shafts of moonlight streaming into the room, lighting up everything in their path in dashes of silver. Hermione stood in the moon's gaze as if it were a spotlight, feeling the familiar sparkling, electric energy dancing upon her skin. In her transformation she became faintly aware of Draco's soft chuckle, "How so very Swan Lake," and her slowly-shortening pillowcase. Very soon, she stood upon her own two feet, a flimsy white curtain wrapped around herself. 

"Malfoy, hand me a robe," she ordered, keeping hold of the curtain as she straightened the folds to cover whatever was necessary. When she received no answer, she looked up, to see him with a faint smirk resting on his lips. 

"What?" she asked indignantly. 

"That curtain looks very flattering on you, Granger," he said mockingly, the smirk creeping even wider. "Very chic. And considering you're most probably going to marry that Weasley boy one day, you'll probably have to get used to wearing improper, frumpy clothing every day of your life …" 

"Shut up, Malfoy," Hermione replied scathingly. "And leave Ron out of this." 

"I could donate a few pillowcases, if you like."

"Just get me a robe before I strangle you!" her voice was nearly a shriek. 

Draco shook his head, chuckling softly, and swung off the left side of is bed, heading towards the wardrobe. He flung the doors open. Nestled amongst the vast myriad of black clothing was a slender dress of silvery blue, stolen off Narcissa. Draco wondered why he ever bothered. _I've never bothered to get Pansy anything before_, he thought, almost wistfully. _Oh well_ ... 

He tossed the dress towards Hermione. She caught it, stared, and said with a trace of suspicion, "I never thought you keep women's clothing in your wardrobe, Malfoy." She ducked behind the drapes, and used it as some sort of screen as she changed. "Although you seemed the type." 

"I also have one in fuchsia," Draco answered bemusedly. "And there's a lot of things you don't know about me." 

Hermione tried to interpret this, before she seemed to suddenly realize something. "Since you gave me this dress," she questioned cautiously, "doesn't that mean you've freed me from your service?" 

Draco considered this. "Do you feel any different than before?" 

"Besides the fact I'm more human than before, no," Hermione admitted. 

"There you go, then. I'm giving you the dress _when you are human_. Not House-elf. As soon as the sun rises, the dress is no longer yours, and you are still in my service." 

"That didn't make much sense. And it's not exactly comforting." 

Draco grinned. "No. It isn't supposed to be." 

Hermione emerged from behind the curtain, stepping uncertainly into the moon's spotlight. She glanced doubtfully at her bare shoulders and the liquid fabric draping from her waist, a faint frown painted upon her face. "Where did you get this, anyway? Previous girlfriend?" 

When she received no answer, she glanced up. Draco was staring her in a way an art enthusiast would gaze at a painting. Mouthslightly open, eyes agape. Hermione frowned, not liking the feeling that accompanied that gaze. Coupled with the soft feel of the rustling fabric, she felt dances of electricity curling up her skin. 

"What?" she asked irritably. She'd seen that look on boys' faces when Lavender decided to wear a very flattering, very transparent, buttercup-yellow blouse to Hogsmeade one afternoon. It had been a very educational day.

"Um, nothing," Draco muttered, his voice restrained. He reached uncertainly for his collar. "That dress … ah … the moonlight is very …" He seemed to find this statement satisfactory and stopped there. Draco swiftly regained his composure, and continued nonchalantly, "I'm just tired. Nightmares can be very tiring." 

Hermione blinked, trying to interpret his words. "Tell me about it." 

To her surprise, he gave her a sideways glance and smiled back at her. "Oh, it was absolutely petrifying," he said with relish. He threw himself back onto his bed and reclined into the pillows. "It involves blood, gore, facing imminent death, and Quidditch. Are you sure you want to listen to it?" he challenged. "Your brain might spontaneously combust just listening." 

Hermione sat upon the velvet couch and crossed her arms. "Really. Try me." 

"If you insist," he smirked, savouring every moment. "It started with me, being the glorious Seeker that I am, majestically chasing down the Golden Snitch …"

* * * *

"You died?" Hermione said, crossing her legs. 

"Well, if you consider being torn apart by a mad Hippogriff and falling to your doom as simply dying, then yes," Draco answered, slightly disappointed by Hermione's lack of enthusiasm. 

"Well, it doesn't seem so horrible," Hermione said, uncrossing her legs. She held her hands forward and twined her fingers together, slightly amused by the look on Draco's face.

I was murdered!" he protested. 

"Precisely my point." 

"Well, glaze over my misery all you want, Granger," Draco said, with a dismissive wave of his hand, "I'm going back to sleep. Good morning." And he promptly fell back into his pillows. 

Hermione glanced at the wooden grandfather clock across the room, and saw the intricately carved hands point at a painted 2 o'clock. She sighed, combed her fingers through her hair tiredly, and, after a while of silence, she turned back towards Draco. 

"You know, Malfoy," she mentioned, "dreaming about your death isn't exactly a good sign. I know I read in one of my books – I can't remember which one – if you have a particularly vivid, and very straightforward, uncomplicated dream of dying, it's an omen. Something's hunting you down. And I can't seem to remember what." 

She received no answer. Hermione peered closer at his unmoving form, and saw, to her bemusement, he had indeed fallen asleep. He was breathing softly, encased in white linen sheets. His face was half-hidden by soft strands of hair. 

Hermione remarked to herself, in subtle laughter, that he did really look like Cupid when he slept. Not a young, cherubic cupid with tiny golden wings and hair in golden ringlets, but the sleeping figure of Cupid, the Greek god of love, swathed in acres worth of feathery wings. 

Hermione caught herself. _What am I saying?_ she thought, mortified and amused at the same time. _I'm complimenting Malfoy. I'm comparing him to Greek deities. Maybe my brain _did_ spontaneously combust while listening to his nightmare_ … 

She shuddered slightly. Draco's nightmare. She was absolutely sure it meant something. The scream he woke up with … it was too terrible and too real to accompany any ordinary nightmare. 

Brushing the matter off for the moment, she tentatively crept across the room and made her way towards Draco's forbidden bookshelf. Tucked in amongst the hardcover titles on display were rolls of parchment, a small jar of ink, and a bundle of quills tied together. Hermione smiled. As a House-elf, she couldn't reach them, or approach the bookshelf either, under the burden of a direct order. This was the chance she was waiting for. She gently lifted the bundles off their perch, brought them to a nearby mahogany desk, and whipped out one of the quills. She began to write: 

_To The Ministry of Magic –  
__The Department of Lost Peoples,_

_Dear Sir/Madam, _

_My name is Hermione Granger, and I am being illegally held in Malfoy Manor.   
A wizard named Barquel performed a prohibited form of magic in Knockturn Alley and transfigured me into a House-elf. Helpless in my form, I was auctioned off in a grotesque and crude manner to the Malfoys, who are now holding me in their custody.   
Please come and retrive me. This is a matter of the utmost urgency. I wish to be restored to my original form as soon as possible, and request you respond immediately. _

_I await your reply.   
Yours sincerely, _

_Hermione Granger_. 

She signed it quickly, the quill skimming hastily over the parchment. Casting a nervous glance at the still-sleeping Draco, Hermione folded the parchment and looked around the room, her gaze searching. 

Finally she slipped it underneath a carpet. Draco wouldn't find it there. She would return and post it later when she had the opportunity, Hermione morosely thought, replacing the quills and ink and parchment back in their place on the bookshelf once the letter was safely tucked away. 

She cast a sad glance at Draco, who peacefully slept on. She wondered if he would have any more nightmares. For some reason, she hated the idea. She didn't want him to wake up screaming again. The mere thought was horrible. 

Before she could think of anything else, Hermione made her way to Draco's bedside, and sat on the edge of the bed, watching as the sheets serenely rose and fell to Draco's breathing. She stayed there, a faint smile dancing across her lips. 

The sun rose steadily over the platinum clouds. As the thin shafts of watery light streamed across the horizon and into the window, the moonlight faded, chased away by the arrival of dawn.

* * * *


	9. Nine: The Many Ways to Slay A Dragon

My Life As A House-Elf  
Chapter Nine: The Many Ways to Slay A Dragon

[A/N: Immense thank you's to those who reviewed. I loff you all. :) And an infinate thank you to my BETA, **Katie**, for sparing me a huge deal of embarassment. Thanks. ;)   
Enjoy the fic!~]

****

Inside the House-elves' Mess Hall, about a dozen elves were talking rapidly in hushed, quiet tones, animated underneath the late morning sunlight streaming through the small windows. Most of them looked confused, others miserable, and the remainder enthusiastic. They waved their thin arms in elaborate gestures as they spoke, all chattering at the same, hasty speed.

Gilly and Topsy were among them. The look on Topsy's face was mournful and slightly horrified, as if she had been worrying over the current matter for quite some time. Her ears drooped, and the hem of her tea towel had been twisted so many times it looked wrinkled in places. 

Gilly, on the other hand, looked vibrant and refreshed, eyes glittering with a spark of hope, as if he had been anticipating this talk for quite some time. He was listening carefully to everything the other elves had to say.

They were discussing Hattie. They were discussing her a lot, lately. The House-elves who were in the Mess Hall last night were stirred by Hermione's speech, while the rest seemed unsure about the whole thing. "The new elf Hattie speaks the truth," one of the older House-elves said rapidly in the House-elves' native tongue.

"We have been slaves for too long. All our other brothers aren't mistreated like we are here," another older elf, with glistening button eyes, ventured. He turned to the rest of the rest of the House-elves for opinions.

"Why does Hattie speak against the Masters?" Topsy, who had been born into service, said in English. She had trouble keeping up with the rapid elfish tongue. She looked doubtfully at the others, who shifted uncomfortably, wondering the same thing. None of them had dared before.

The older elf turned to her, slightly frowning in thought. "Maybe Hattie wants to be free." He shivered, and so did the rest. "It is a terrible and beautiful idea. Freedom is the heaviest burden to carry, and only the bravest carry it."

"Then Hattie is brave," Gilly volunteered. A few House-elves saw this, and nodded. Very, very brave, they thought. Very brave, but also very foolish.

Suddenly, the doors crashed open, and a very stormy-looking Hattie thundered into the room. The others gasped and blinked when they saw the look on her face. She looked particularly livid with fury, and some of the more admiring House-elves looked up to her in expectant awe, anticipating a motivational speech.

"Hattie," Topsy asked uncertainly, "what's the matter?"

Hermione glared at her, and Topsy withered. Hermione sighed and dropped her gaze, feeling a little guilty for causing such a scene. She recounted on what had happened earlier that morning, what started it, and seethed over the memory.

Draco had risen from bed only a few moments after sunrise, blinking in the bright sunlight and at Hermione, who had just turned back into a House-elf. When he recalled the night before, he groaned and crawled out of bed, sleepily shambling towards the bathroom, brushing past Hermione, barely noticing she was standing there. He muttered "G'morgue," before the bathroom door slammed behind him.

"Well, you certainly are cheery this morning," Hermione remarked, more to herself as splashing water could audibly be heard from behind the door. She did what any House-elf would automatically do, and immediately set herself to straightening her Master's bed, folding the sheets and arranging the pillows, dutifully smoothing out any creases that dared to mar the perfection of her work.

As Hermione stood back to admire her effort, her eyes dreamily strayed towards the animated calendar that hung upon the opposite wall.

The current date shone in gold amongst the rest of the black numbers, standing out starkly, and at the sight of it, Hermione gasped. She gazed at the bathroom door, and waited patiently for Draco to open it.

When he emerged from the bathroom, the words Hermione was bursting to say suddenly came to a temporary halt. He was dressed in shades of white and grey, with brilliant smatterings of silver. Considering the sheer amount of black in his wardrobe, this was quite a change. He looked striking and exquisitely decent, Hermione thought, and he seemed to subtly acknowledge this. But what surprised her most was the expression on his face.

"You're certainly silent this morning," Draco said, barely glancing at her as he deposited his towel in the laundry basket, all signs of the nightmare-shaken boy the night before completely gone. He gave a quick smile, which faded as he adjusted his collar, but lingered on his lips when he peered at himself in a mirror. "I expected you to create a row, having being forced to clean up my bed like a meagre slave. Aren't you going to berate me about how unreservedly cruel and heartless I'm being?"

Hermione found it hard to answer this. He looked strangely pleasant, Hermione thought. Head cocked to one side, she remarked how different he looked from his arrogant, haughty persona. But then again, she had never seen him outside school before. She preferred this Draco more. Subsequently, she felt faintly surprised at herself, that she would prefer Draco at all.

Delighted to see that he was in good spirits, Hermione knew it made asking for her request much easier. "Today is the 31st of July," she mentioned.

He cast her a silvery glance. "Oh, really? Congratulations for noticing. What's so special about it, pray tell?"

Hermione cleared her throat. "Today's Harry's birthday," she said. "I need permission to send him a card, a letter maybe, to wish him … a … happy …" her voice trailed off when she caught sight of Draco's expression, and blinked in astonishment.

He had been looking faintly good-natured a moment ago. Now he looked as if Hermione had slapped him. The amiable sheen in his eye had vanished, to be replaced by a dark, stormy look, his mouth curled into a scowl. The sheer transformation startled Hermione.

Draco, who had been looking so pleasant before, now looked likely to do something very unpleasant

"Oh, I expect you want to send your darling scar face a birthday greeting," he said, his voice now thick with sinister mockery. "From his little devoted mistress. How touching. Do you want pink card, or do you want something a little more formal, say perfumed paper? I expect you want some crimson ink to draw little hearts with …"

Hermione gaped in shock. She glared in bewilderment and fury, her fists slowly curling into fists. "Excuse me?" she gasped, trying to keep the angry tremor out of her voice. "I wanted to send a birthday greeting, not a Valentine! And what's the matter with you, anyway?"

Draco rolled his eyes snidely, and looked away as scornfully as he could. "Oh, nothing. At least I don't waste parchment by filling it with smarmy love quotes. You probably didn't know that Potter's already gone gadding off with Weasley's brat sister, did you? He's already got that freckled limpet clinging to his shoulder, why should _you_?"

Hermione shook with livid fury. "You know what, Malfoy?" she cried shrilly. "It's no wonder everyone hates you. You're _despicable_." And she stormed from the room, slamming the door behind her.

After a few minutes of rampaging haphazardly through the Malfoys' cavernous halls, and vandalizing a few statues or two, Hermione finally managed to find a moment to calm down. When she did, she sunk into despair. She was hoping to send Harry a birthday greeting, something light-hearted and pleasant, to throw his mind off the horrible Dursleys, even if it meant for a few minutes. She wasn't planning to tell him about her current predicament, and make him worry for no reason. She was planning to post the Ministry letter as well. Seeing Draco's light spirits, she thought he would let her borrow his owl.

But Draco's radical assumptions didn't help at all. She wondered what set him off. He had been acting so pleasantly, Hermione thought, and she was vaguely surprised to find that she had considered him almost charming, until, of course Harry was mentioned …

Until Harry was mentioned.

_Oh_, Hermione thought, scowling. She kicked the carpet irritably. _It's about Harry_. She gave a tremendous exasperated, angry sigh, made her way towards the House-elves' Mess Hall, where she hoped to find solace.

And there she was, surrounded by tens of pairs of curious eyes.

"Hattie?" Topsy asked. "Is something wrong?"

_A million things_, Hermione thought to herself. _Too many things_. But she forced a weak smile at Topsy, saying, "No, nothing's wrong. Anything I can do here?" She hoped the haze of duty would deaden her anger towards Draco.

"Well," Topsy said, biting her lower lip, "Master Draco usually takes his breakfast in his room at about this time, and he likes his tea –"

But Hermione didn't stay around to listen to how Draco liked his tea. At the mention of his name, she groaned and bristled off, thundering out of the doors as abruptly as she came in.

"Um," Topsy said weakly. Everyone else just stared.

****

Down the steps of the Manor, next to the forests and meadows that marked the boundry of the Malfoy estate, was a well-kept Topiary Garden.

The Malfoys were immensely proud the Garden. Teams of gardeners would work throughout the day and night to keep it in tip-top shape. They meticulously cared for the topiaries, making sure they were always perfectly trimmed, ensured the hedges were continuously clipped, the gravel paths raked and adequately arranged, the rose bowers perfect, and the large hedge maze in the centre of the Gardens perfectly sculpted. It was one of the Manor's greatest prides.

Down among the topiaries and clipped carpet lawns, Hermione was busying herself by mauling a small peacock topiary. When she was done with it, it resembled anything but a peacock. It looked more like a splintered pile of leaf and twig. Hermione gasped for breath, surprised and satisfied at what she had done, sitting down quietly while her rage died down.

_Curse him_, Hermione thought furiously, rubbing her sore feet where she had caught a few splinters while trampling on the now-ruined topiary. _Curse him with all the horrible curses, even the ones that don't exist yet_.

The sky above was already showing signs of rain, the clouds hanging like a vast sheet of silver over the earth. The silver matched Draco's eyes. Hermione's scowl grew wider and she hugged her knees, sobbing a little, occasionally prodding the destroyed topiary with her toe, before she stopped and leaned against a hedge, eyes closed.

She heard voices.

They were faint at first, and were coming audibly from behind the hedge, but Hermione's elfin ears could scarcely pick up the conversation. There was the sound of rustling bushes.

"So this is the entrance it will use to get into the Manor?" a man's slightly hoarse voice asked.

"Yeah. It's very well hidden, no? Too bad we didn't discover this route sooner," a second voice answered. "Our first man decided to use the chimney to get in, and look what happened to _him_."

Maybe it was Hermione's imagination, but she thought these voices sounded very sinister. She didn't like the way they spoke – whispering and menacing, as if they belonged to very evil, very poisonous serpents. Hermione had nothing against snakes, actually. Just the human ones. She felt uncomfortable just listening to them.

There was a cold chuckle from the first speaker. "A perfectly good waste. What did you say happened to him?"

"There was an Inferno Hex laced around the fireplace," the second speaker answered,the sound of a shudder in his voice. "And the poor fellow was blown up the chimney in a searing jet of fire."

Hermione froze.

"Are you sending in any more of these so-called … 'professionals'?" the first speaker asked in subtle disdain.

"Well, not human ones, of course," the second one mumbled uncomfortably. "But I assure you, sir, this creature we have isn't going to fail. It has been trained in the art of murder. It will make no mistakes. Lucius Malfoy will get what he deserves, and he won't ever suspect it's you – us."

"Good, good," the first voice said icily, suggesting a cruel smile. "Precisely what I want. Three nights from now, that young Malfoy brat of a child will be as good as dead."

The two voices shared a sinister laugh.

Hermione wascompletely stunned. After a few minutes, there the sound of rustling leaves, like bushes being pushed aside. "Let's get out of here. It looks like it's going to rain." Their voices steadily faded behind the layers of hedges, muffled by leaf and neatly-manicured shrub.

There was a brief, silent pause, still and thick as chilled custard. Hermione's glazed state of mind barely acknowledged the rain-laced breeze that whispered through the topiaries, or the faint roll of thunder in the distant, gathering clouds.

Without further hesitation, she dashed towards the Manor.

****


	10. Ten: The Betrayal

My Life As A House-Elf

Chapter Ten: The Betrayal

[A/N: To clarify a few things:

It's Draco who is the victim of the assassination plot. When the would-be murderers said, "Lucius Malfoy will get what he deserves", I meant that Lucius will get what he deserves when his only child, his firstborn son, the heir to the whole Malfoy fortune, the little brat who he's been raising for fifteen **long years, dies. It's twisted and bizarre, but hey, ickle Draco is such an easy target. Ahem.**

Sorry for the confusion caused. I'll try to be more articulate next time.]

*          *            *            *

Draco paced back and forth in his room, nearly tearing his hair out in frustration. He was angry and irritated, and he didn't know why. All he knew was that he was angry and irritated at Hermione, making a vague note that she was as angry and irritated with him as well. They were back to their regular footing: _hate. Every pleasant thought and friendly word between them was shattered with the utterance of a single name: __Harry Potter._

Draco cursed that name. He cursed Hermione as well, for saying it. He thought he could get by these holidays without having to hear anything about the scarred one's tremendous fame. But he noted, as he glanced at the calendar that hung upon his wall, today was Potter's birthday. And Hermione remembered.

_Does she always think about him?_ Draco thought, the scowl on his face growing wider. _Is he always at the back of her head? Does she dream of him at night, does she rush to his homework for him, does she make his bed for him and do all his bloody fetching, does she sit by his side, and patiently listen to him tell her his petty nightmares …_

Draco paused. _She probably does_.

He sat down rigidly upon the couch next to the window, and stared furiously at the sky as a bright ribbon of electricity tore through the grey skies. A summer storm was brewing. 

That morning seemed to dawn very well. He had woken up from such a pleasant dream – something that involved that Granger girl answering questions in Arithmancy class before they were even asked, her voice eloquent and clear – and the sun was shining shimmeringly from the windows. Everything had been fine.

And he had decided to wear white, for once. A nice, casual robe Mother had bought for him last Christmas, one he'd thought he had burned in the fireplace a few months ago. Black just didn't feel appropriate this morning. Not with everything feeling so refreshing, alive, pleasant. Not with his bed made just right, and breakfast and tea waiting for him downstairs, and he'd probably have a few rounds of Quidditch before going horseback riding through the Malfoy acres. Today would be a perfect day, he thought. If it weren't for one minor factor.

Harry Potter's birthday. Of all the days he had to feel fine, it just had to be the wonderful date his horrible arch-nemesis had come into the world.

_The world is cruel and terribly ironic,_ Draco thought bitterly. He stared up at the dripping grey sky.

There was a knock at the door.

Draco glanced up, scowling, mentally willing the person behind the door to implode. "Go _away_," he cried demandingly. To his annoyance, the door swung open, and Pansy Parkinson stood there, clinging against the doorframe, a seductive smile playing on her red, pouty lips.

Draco's fury soon dissolved into bemusement and despair as he regarded Pansy's choice of clothing. She was always an outrageous dresser, Draco reminded himself, noting the long black skirt slit all the way to the waist, the clingy velvet pink blouse, the fishnet stockings and the glittering diamanté belt. Her lips were painted bright pink and so was her hair, streaked with blonde and cherry in a radical way that stood out of the crowd.  

"Oh," Draco said, trying to keep his voice calm. "It's you." 

"Yes, it's me," Pansy said musically, stepping into the room. She didn't walk – she _sashayed. Her bright, cherry-pink lips were grinning in Draco's direction, her half-lidded, penetrating gaze staring at him as if she could devour him with just a gaze. To Draco's discomfort, she decided to sit right next to him. "Draco darling," she cooed. "I have a surprise for you."_

_After seeing you dressed like that, I don't think I can handle any more surprise_, Draco thought gloomily. "Really. Do tell."

Pansy gave a small laugh, as she reached out her painted fingers, and ran enticing trails across Draco's arm. "Our parents are away," she whispered sultrily into his ear. "They've all gone to town on a shopping excursion. That leaves us _all alone," she said, dreamily pronouncing the last two words. "Just you and me and a wonderfully vast Manor with just so many _rooms_ …"_

_And so many House-elves that could, incidentally, come marching in any moment_, Draco thought. He fidgeted uncomfortably out of the way, far enough to be out of Pansy's line of touch. To his despair, she edged closer to him, a determined smile on her face.

"Just you and me, Draco dear," she purred. "Think of all the things we could do …"

"Oh, like, play chess, for example?" Draco suggested nonchalantly, as he desperately tried to get out of her way. "Or listen to the grand piano play itself in the Music Room, or browse through books in the Library –"

"No, I meant something like … _this_," Pansy said, and she closed the space between them, planting a wet, tongue-lined kiss upon Draco's agape, startled mouth.

He struggled to get her off him. But Pansy was a great deal more determined than he was, and pushed him violently onto his back, raining kisses upon his face. Draco groaned in disgust. "Pansy – get off me – look, we've talked about this over and over –"

Pansy looked hurt. She pouted as endearingly as she could. "But Draco, you _know we're going to get married sooner or later when we're older. Our parents want us to. That's why I stay over with you every summer – so we can get to know each other better."_

_I feel I've known you all my life_, Draco thought, eyeing her disdainfully, _which is why I'm sick of you_. He pushed her off, groaning and cursing under his breath. The cocky smile was back on Pansy's face, and when Draco was back on his feet, she grasped his arm and spiraled him towards the bed. Draco fell down with an undignified, "Umph!" upon Hermione's neatly folded sheets and carefully arranged pillows.

"Pansy, see here – I'm going to make this as plain as I can …"

"Don't be tedious, Draco," Pansy said laughingly, leaping up and falling right on top of him. Draco felt the wind driven out of his lungs. "Just _hush," Pansy continued, placing a finger upon his lips, "Don't say a word. I'll do all the talking."_

"Pansy, look  – _mmph." He stopped. She had mashed her lips against his own in a spectacular flourish, and Draco nearly choked when her tongue started to explore the depths of his mouth. He coughed, struggled to push her off, but his arms were anchored down underneath him, and there was nothing he could do to stop Pansy from unbuttoning his shirt and slowly loosening his trousers. He was about to reach underneath his pillow for his wand, when – _BANG_._

The doors of the room flew open. Standing there, looking in utter shock at the scene before her, was Hermione. 

*          *            *            *

Hermione had dashed across the gardens as fast as her tiny feet could carry her, fuelled by terror and the prospect of her Master being killed. All her House-elf instincts were screaming to get to him as soon as possible, make sure he's safe, make sure whatever was hunting him down wasn't near …

She stopped in her tracks.

_What do I care,_ she thought, almost laughing at herself. _What do I care if Draco Malfoy's in impending doom? Lucius Malfoy is probably the cause of this mess. He's gotten his own son in trouble, the victim of a murderous plot. It's his problem. Not mine._ Hermione bit her lip uncertainly, wondering whether she should leave it at that.

Lucius Malfoy's affairs were none of her business, she knew that. But, as much as she detested the idea, she couldn't leave Draco to _die_. He was right about her Gryffindorian morals. They got in the way of almost everything. She swallowed all her bitter pride, and all her anger towards him, and marched determinedly towards his room to warn him. Her heart ached to make sure he was informed, hoping something would be done before anything horrible happened. 

She didn't bother knocking first, this was much too important. Her words spilled from her lips as the door swung open. "Malfoy –" she began, but the rest of the words froze in her throat. The spectacle before her caused her to stop in her tracks, her eyes to widen and glaze over, and her heart to come to a maddening stop.

Draco Malfoy was looking sweaty and ruffled; his normally neat hair askew and hanging in silky, wet bangs across his forehead. His face was covered in violently red lipstick stains. His cheeks were flushed – and his shirt was halfway open, revealing an equally flushed chest … upon which Pansy Parkinson's hand was resting.

Hermione's eyes trailed along the arm attached to that hand, following it to see Pansy's bare shoulder, the absence of any fabric covering her back. Pansy's thick, blonde ringlets were askew and hanging unglamorously across her face, sticking upon her lips where her cherry-pink lipstick had smeared across her mouth and jaw line. Lipstick that matched the stains daubed across Draco's face.

Hermione felt something small and weak shatter in her heart.

They stared in unified, aghast shock as silence descended like autumn leaves.

It was Hermione who spoke first. "You –!" she gasped, pointing to Draco.

"Grang – I mean Hattie, this isn't what it looks like …" he abruptly pushed Pansy off and got up, holding up his hands in a gesture of peace. It was then that he noticed that his pants were missing. Pansy had torn them off, and they lay in a tangled heap on the floor, next to Pansy's pink blouse.

Hermione choked on her words. "You – you …" she began, and then shrieked out a particularly moving insult. The air turned slightly blue around her. "You incredibly sick _bastard, _Malfoy!" she let out an enraged roar and stormed out of the room, her screams of venting fury audibly heard through the door she had slammed shut.

There was a moment's worth of thick, undisturbed silence as everyone's thoughts settled. Pansy leaned on her arm and turned dreamily towards Draco. "Well, that was strange and uncalled for," she said calmly, throwing him another seductive grin. "Coming, dear?"

Draco stared at the closed doors. All his furious thoughts on Granger had returned, and his eyes darkened, remembering her harsh words, her livid gazes, her affections for that unspeakable wretch Potter. His scowl deepened. His mind bubbled with all sorts of venomous, bitter thoughts, filling his veins with a vicious, black poison, composed of nothing but _hate, hate, hate._

"I don't see why not," he answered in a low, dark voice, and joined next to her on the bed.

Pansy's teeth glimmered wolfishly in a flash of sudden, white lightning. Rolls of thunder later, a sheet of thick, grey rain cascaded from the sky, as the clouds unleashed their furious, heavy burden upon the bleak earth below.

*          *            *            *

[A/N: Don't worry about the point of this chapter. It's only purpose is to make Draco and Hermione all the more infuriated with each other, and make Pansy one very happy girl. 

I apologize to all Pansy fans for portraying her based on the clichéd stereotype of the fandom, but I will make a greater effort to write her in a more appealing light in upcoming chapters. Heh. Promise. J]


	11. Eleven: The Appropriate Warning

My Life As A House-Elf –

Chapter Eleven: The Appropriate Warning

*          *          *          *

Lightning flashed across the sky like a hundred cameras going off together, accompanied by a chorus of drumming thunder. Meanwhile the sky cried, bitterly and softly. The dripping heavens watched in silence as the thin, dishevelled House-elf beneath dashed through the colourless puddles left streaked in the mud. 

Hermione was unmistakably upset. Her tears rivalled the sky, falling softly down her cheeks, joining the multitude of raindrops that rolled down to the base of her neck. She was soaked to the skin and shivering. 

Yet she ploughed through the rain as if it were cause of all her torment, when the source of her misery lay inside the Manor, curled up in silken sheets, warm and cosy by the fire.

With … _her_.

Hermione had rushed, in a streak of distress, out the front doors into the soaking rain, a spell of blind rage taking over her for a moment. Her mind was reeling. But somehow, in the cold rain and biting winds, she managed to regain her senses and think on how ridiculous she was behaving.

_Rushing out into the rain_, she thought, with temper. _For _him_?_ _He can go gadding off with any girl he wants to. I have nothing – absolutely _nothing _–_ _to do with him_.

She paused, pounding this thought into her head, with little success. _I think I'll go inside now_. With gravity, she back headed towards the immense, oaken doors. It seemed a logical enough thing to do.

Hermione strode past the glittering hallways – which seemed muted and dull in all their dreary finery – towards the Kitchens, where the some of the House-elves were indulging in a rare game of Gnome Dice. The stoves were unlit; the ovens sleeping like dormant black toads. Everything seemed to be hushed underneath the bout of rain.

Hermione sat unceremoniously next to Topsy, who was busy polishing spoons. "Hello, Hattie," Topsy chirped. Then she gasped. "Hattie, your dress is soaking! Let us get that changed," and, with a clatter of spoons, she rushed off towards the far recesses of the kitchen.

Sighing, Hermione picked up one of the newly polished spoons. She saw her bulging reflection in the silver surface, staring back at her with exaggerated mottled green eyes, laden with sadness, while her freckled olive reflection stretched towards the edges of the spoon, etched with a clear frown. Her mind was frothing with all strange, bizarre thoughts.

_It's not as if I'm that pretty_, was one of them. Moments later, she cocked her head to one side in defeat, thinking, _She's definitely pretty – and rich – enough. _

And then continued, _I wonder if she's ever seen him in his sleep._

Followed by, _I wonder if she's ever told him how nice he looks in white_. She glowered.

I wonder if she's ever listened to his nightmares, or called him Malfoy, or tore up his curtains in fury, or threw his books into fountains or mended his torn robes …

_I wonder_ –

"Hattie," Topsy chirped, scattering Hermione's thoughts in an instant. "Here you are. One new dress." She presented a thin, folded pillow case to Hermione like she was presenting the Commonwealth flag to the Queen, setting a steaming cup of watery tea next to it. Hermione stared at the humble offerings blankly, before forcing a weak smile at Topsy, and gingerly picking up the steaming cup.

"Thanks," she managed to whisper, before taking a sip.

Topsy stared at Hermione queerly. Her brow was knotted in thought. "Why was Hattie standing in the rain?" she asked tentatively, carefully choosing her words as if she was treading upon eggshells.

Hermione replied with a slow sigh. She could feel the tears prickling at her eyes, threatening to burst forward if she didn't withhold them quickly. "Nothing, I …" she held her breath and quickly fabricated something. "I was told to stand in the rain. I – I was being punished. By … by Master Draco."

Saying that, Hermione retched mentally. 

She took a long, lengthy draught of tea.

"Oh," Topsy gasped, visibly troubled. "What happened? What did Hattie do? Why was Master Draco upset?"

That did it. 

Hermione set her mug down with a vehement slam. "Why is it always what _Draco_ wants?!" Hermione suddenly screamed, toppling her chair over as she rushed to stand up. "WHY is it always what _he_ wants? Why can't it be what _I_ want? Why doesn't anyone care if I'm upset? Why is it always _MY_ fault?!" Her voice was almost hysterical, fractured with sobs.

She abruptly burst into tears. The House-elves now stared, completely stunned, at their sobbing comrade. Topsy looked shaken. "Hattie – friend Hattie, please stop crying, there, there …" she patted Hermione's shoulder comfortingly, though a little rigidly, and led her away.

The rest of the House-elves turned to each other and softly began to chatter.

"Hattie asks for what _Hattie_ wants," whispered Gilly, looking enthralled. "We have never asked for what _we_ want before …."

This statement was carried down the table, slowly mounting louder in volume and in fervour, like the prospect of an impending flood. _Hattie asks for what Hattie wants_. The excited House-elves unknowingly – and enthusiastically – gave fire to one of the greatest milestones in House-elf Revolution.

*          *          *          *

Topsy waited patiently while Hermione carried on crying until there were no tears left, handing in tissues once in a while, and offering a comforting pat on the back when the situation required it. Finally she asked, in a tiny, faltering voice, "Is Hattie alright now?"

Hermione sniffed and nodded. She twisted the soggy tissue in her hands. "Yes. I suppose – I think I'm alright  …"

Topsy looked at Hermione pityingly, her large eyes diluted with concern. "There, there, friend Hattie," she murmured. "It was not Hattie's fault. Hattie does not deserve to be punished."

Hermione didn't look up. "I wasn't being punished."

Topsy stared. "Then …"

"I stood in the rain because I was angry," she answered truthfully, her voice morbid. "I – we – had an argument." Topsy gasped, her thin hand flying towards her mouth. "We argued before, and …" Hermione bit her lip doubtfully, before uttering, "Oh Topsy, what is that girl doing here? Why in the world does she stay here?"

Topsy gaped for several moments, before abruptly stumbling across her voice. "Oh … Hattie, Miss Parkinson is a friend of Master Draco's …"

At this, Hermione crossed her arms, lips pressed thin.

"Miss Parkinson comes every summer," Topsy continued, "and stays until school begins. Miss Parkinson and Master Draco are supposed to become lord and lady of the Manor when they are old enough. We are to serve Miss Parkinson then, as if she were one of our own Family."

Hermione stared. "Lord and lady of the Manor? You mean … they're going to … Draco and Pansy?" She paused, her glare severe. "_Married?_"

Topsy looked surprised. "Of course," she said, as if it were the most obvious thing. "Ever since they were born, Miss Parkinson and Master Draco were promised to each other."

"What … By who?"

"The Families," Topsy answered, blinking back astonishment. "Did not Hattie now?"

"I … I just thought they just were …" Hermione took a deep breath. "You mean he's been betrothed since the day he was _born_?"

Topsy nodded, slowly and deliberately. "That is the way of the old families."

Hermione buried her face in her hands. _This is absurd,_ she thought, feeling like laughing and crying all at once. _How could I have been so stupid. It didn't start at the Yule Ball. It's been going on since he was born. Maybe even before that_. The very thought of Draco belonging to someone beyond his own control gave her the sensation that a heavy weight had been lifted from her chest, and she minded terribly. It was bizarre.

There was a short, pensive silence. Finally, Topsy squeaked, "Friend Hattie?"

Hermione glanced up, looking extremely sickly. "Yes, Topsy?"

The House-elf chewed her lip thoughtfully, uncertainly shuffling her feet. "Is Hattie … Is Hattie, um. _Attached_ to Master Draco?"

Hermione never expected this question. It had come strangely from the mouth of her friend, when, for the past few days, she had been asking herself the very same question, trying to silence the answer.

Finally, she stood up, slowly and deliberately. "I have to go," Hermione muttered, grabbing the spare pillowcase, stepping behind a shelf to change.

"Hattie?" Topsy asked. "Is everything alright?"

Hermione looked extremely distracted as she rushed from the room, turning to Topsy just once and muttering, "Sorry Topsy. Thanks for everything. I understand now, he can't help but be with Pansy Parkinson … and that doesn't mean he has to die."

Ignoring Topsy's questioning cries, she dashed through the Kitchens at an incredible speed, and, if she had been taking notice to her surroundings, she would have heard the House-elves cheering her on and crying, "We want what Hattie wants!"

*          *          *          *

_Damn all these buttons_, Draco thought in irritation.

He fumbled with the numerous silver buttons on his unkempt shirt, annoyed at their quantity, their shininess, and the fact they were stamped with the Malfoy coat-of-arms. Glancing into the mirror, he checked his reflection, before catching sight of Pansy lounging on the bed behind him. Draco groaned.

"What, pray tell, are you doing?" Pansy asked sweetly, a thin sliver of malice and irritation slipping through her saccharine mask.

"I'm getting dressed," Draco answered. "I understand if it's something you rarely do properly."

With a short, fake bark of a laugh, Pansy continued, "Where are you going, then?"

Draco didn't bother meeting her gaze. His voice and face were expressionless. "Tower Room. And I won't say when I'm coming down." 

Pansy stared unsmiling at Draco's back. Different rooms in the Manor meant different moods for Draco. If he was in the Library, he needed to think. If he was on the Quidditch pitch or off riding in the fields, he wanted to escape. If he were in the dungeons, it either meant he was being punished, or he was busy punishing someone else. 

The Tower Room meant isolation.

Pansy whipped out a cigarette from a dress pocket, igniting it with her wand. "Go ahead," she muttered, a little irritably.

Draco straightened his shirt smartly in the mirror, and smoothed out his hair. He checked to see if there were anymore lipstick stains in sight. With a nod of approval, Draco deduced, _You look terrible and yet still devastatingly handsome. Sometimes I wonder how I do it_. He turned with much dignity towards the bedroom door.

And – slowly – fell over.

Pansy suppressed a chuckle. "Maybe you shouldn't go up to the Tower after all. You'd probably never survive the third step."

"Oh, shut up, Pansy," Draco growled. His bootlace had caught onto a rug, causing him to stumble and fall. He muttered a few choice curses as he pushed himself up, stopping abruptly when he caught sight of piece of parchment out of the corner of his eye.

Draco's faint scowl became more potent as he pushed the offending rug aside, revealing wisps of stray threads, pieces of lint, layers of dust –

… and a small folded letter.

Draco lifted it up and unfolded it. The writing in it was unmistakably Hermione's. Draco scanned the neat, straight rows and the flowing, cursive script he found so familiar after sneaking glances into Hermione's exercise books, his gaze darkening after every word. His jaw tensed, and his grip on the paper tightened considerably, but he made no sound nor moved an inch.

When he was done, his face was expressionless.

Pansy was sitting up in the bed, taking long draughts from a cigarette she held between her manicured fingers. She glanced at Draco. "What is that?" she muttered half-heartedly, waving her cigarette towards the parchment in Draco's hands.

If Draco's mind wasn't being distracted by a myriad of hounding thoughts, he would have said something about Pansy smoking in his bedroom, getting ash on the covers and filling the chamber with tobacco smoke. 

However, he merely said, "Nothing," in a strange, light tone of voice, before crumpling the parchment into a tight ball within his fist. He added, in something more subtle, soft and ominous: "Someone is going to be very, _very_ sorry."

*          *          *          *

Note: The author would like to thank numerous people for providing inspiration, much joy and persuation, and expresses her gratitude to: 

**satori**, for recommending this fic on the Draco/Hermione Yahoo!Group, **Clang**, because I received word from someone that you actually niffled for the fic, and also **phoenixxxx** because I saw one of my quotes in your signature. All of this proves that I must be doing _something_ right.

Special thank you to **2prongs2** and **www.yarik.com** for the effort put into translating this fic into Russian. I am still astounded.

And sincere thanks to **Weird, Christa **and** Katie, **who, in their weirdiality, literally drove me to my keyboard to type.

Much love to everyone who reviewed, and who is going to review. ;) 


	12. Twelve: The Voice Behind The Design

My Life As A House-Elf –

Chapter Twelve: The Voice Behind The Design

*          *          *          *

Somewhere below the Manor, in a small, tumbling emerald valley nestled in a framework of pine forests, and some time before the dramatics in the Manor ever took place, the Parkinson and the Malfoy parents had gone on an outing.

An ominous black ebony carriage passed gloomily through the winding cobbled streets, met with angry leers and dagger-like stares from the local populace. The Malfoys weren't popular among the townsfolk, considering considering their homes and livelihood belonged to Lucius Malfoy, and they had to pay monthly tribute to his household. The townspeople grumbled but did little else, living in the looming shadow of the Manor, which stood prominently upon the overlooking cliff.

"Those who wish to counter the tax rates," Lucius had told them one memorable morning a few years earlier, "are all welcome to raise their hands and say, 'I commit myself to unspeakable tortures, and a cursed life hereafter.'" That kept them from uprising, most of the time.

The medieval-style homes were well maintained and neat. The fountain in the Town Square flowed crystalline water from the brass urn of a gleaming centaur sculpture. Flowers lined the road. The smell of baking bread and the occasional puff of Floo Powder mingled in the sharp, clear air. It would look a picturesque town, if not for the angry stares from the tinted windows and the occasional, "We hate you, Malfoy!" from a random, disgruntled townsperson. 

"The peasants are _revolting,_" Narcissa giggled from the interior of the carriage, smiling at the double meaning of her statement.

The carriage stopped silently by the door of a less-than noticeable tavern, and Lucius stepped out. He stared at the sign hanging above him. _'Ogden's Alehouse – Best Cider in all Ireland'_. It looked almost unflattering in a dull, greyish light, half-hidden behind a curtain of deep green ivy.

"This is the place," he told a flustered-looking Mr. Parkinson, who was tagging mournfully behind. "We can discuss the matters there."

*                                                        *            *          *

"There's a room upstairs, sir …" 

Mr. Parkinson surveyed the small, dimly lit room. Weak and speckled sunlight filtered through a solitary, dusty window, illuminating the cobwebby beams and faded carpet, the two simple chairs and unfurnished table.

The room looked harmless in its simplicity, but Mr. Parkinson knew that the walls were riddled with silencing charms and the door laced with protective hexes, invisible and ancient. He seated himself calmly at one chair and cleared his throat. "What did we want to discuss?"

"The body found in the chimney, you idiot," Lucius snapped. "Why else would I drag you and your wife, and Narcissa as well, all the way into town?" Lucius leaned back into the high-backed armchair and poured himself a goblet of wine. "Certainly not to enjoy the company."

"Um. To pop over at the nearest tavern and order a few drinks, while Narcissa and Athina spend a month's worth of tax money on three hours' worth of splurging? I don't know Lucius," Mr. Parkinson added quickly before his host could interject, "that body may have just been a Santa Claus gone wrong." Nervous laughter.

"Poor attempt at humour, Parkinson. Try again."

 Mr. Parkinson blinked, realizing something. "Why are we discussing this here? Isn't the Manor a safer place?"

"_No_." That was definite. "The Manor is too easily broken into, and there are probably those watching and listening to us there. The town is much safer."

_Your townsfolk are protesting against you_, Mr. Parkinson thought. _And how unfortunate for you to not feel safe in your own home_. "It could be a harmless robber," he suggested. "A – a cat burglar. A jewel thief. He wasn't after lives, he was after the … _artefacts_ you have underneath the drawing room floor." He lowered his voice at this statement.

"We found _weapons_ on the assassin," Lucius continued, ignoring Mr. Parkinson's elaborate explanations. "A knife that was almost saved from the fire, a length of flame-resistant goblin rope, and several scorched poison darts. And, of course, a wand that was intact enough to be examined."

"And?"

Lucius' gaze was steely. "Willow, eleven and a half inches, dragon heartstring. After consulting the records of Mr. Ollivander, there are over three hundred people who have purchased this wand type over the period of ten years. But only one – only _one_ – person who could have been the unfortunate individual who met his death in the Manor."

"Who?" Mr. Parkinson's voice was but a hoarse whisper. "Who is it?"

"Wait," Lucius muttered suddenly, looking around, eyes narrowed in suspicion. "There's someone inside this room." His voice was no louder than a whisper. "Someone is here… listening to every word we say."

Mr. Parkinson gave a start. Eyebrows raised, he glanced about the room, as Lucius roamed from corner to corner, prodding the shadows and dusty edges with his cane. He opened the door and gazed into the empty corridor, listening to the telltale footstep or soft breathing of an invisible, cloaked eavesdropper.

Up in the wooden beams, there was a critter. It was the size of a button, half-hidden behind dust and cobweb and shadow. It had heard enough. When it was obvious Lucius Malfoy wasn't going to say anymore, the creature unfolded its wings that had been tucked underneath its tough carapace, took flight and buzzed soundlessly out of the doorway.

It landed a few buildings away, upon the windowsill of a man who sat quietly in a high-backed armchair, sipping sparkling champagne in the bright afternoon sunlight, listening to a softly playing opera aria in an isolated inn.

People like this demanded special attention.

"Well?" the champagne-drinker asked, in a distinctly sinister voice. "What information have you gathered for me?"

The beetle changed back into her original human form, shaking out her frizzy red hair and sighing. "They already know. Malfoy gave a guess, and now he knows."

"Oh, I expected as much," the speaker muttered irritably. "Lucius is much too clever to be fooled by empty tributes and the like. I suppose he has gotten wind of the entire plot by now."

"I wouldn't doubt that," the woman said, re-applying her lipstick in a nearby mirror. "What are you going to do now, hmm?"

 "I suppose we could have a change of plans." The first speaker spoke calmly and threateningly. "We could have it carried out by … tonight."

"Tonight?" the woman asked in disbelief. "But that's too soon! Draco Malfoy will be –"

" – Dead by tomorrow. Thank you Miss Skeeter. I'm sure I know how to do my job well enough. And I expect you to carry out your job just as efficiently."

The woman sniffed irritably. "And my payment, sir?"

The voice was smiling. "Already deposited into your Gringotts account, don't fret. And a bonus will be provided … once our newspaper story is published on the front page of the _Daily Prophet_, of course."

"'_Lucius Malfoy Murders Own Son,'_" the woman quoted maliciously. "This will be the story of the year. My career is made." She gave an ominous laugh. "Thank you, sir."

"Thank _you_, Miss Skeeter." The voice paused. "And please tell Sergio in the lobby to please release his little pet."

"Yes, sir," was her grinning reply. Presently she left, and the door closed.

*                                                        *            *          *


	13. Thirteen: The Burden of Freedom

My Life As A House-Elf

Chapter 13 – The Burden of Freedom

*                        *                        *                        *

Back at the Manor, Hermione scoured from room to room, across spiral staircases and through blazing candle-lit hallways, filled with a mad desire and desperation to find the person she despised most of all.

"Where is that _prat_?!" she muttered breathlessly, overturning some velvet cushions upon a couch in a flare of hopelessness.

"Excuse me?"

Hermione lifted her eyes and faced a rather puzzled looking portrait, who had been gazing, engrossed, in a sheet of parchment etched with fancy, starry diagrams of constellations and planets. Translucent glass models of the solar system, and intricate paintings of galaxies and stars surrounded the figure, who was staring, quite puzzled, at Hermione. He raised an eyebrow.

Hermione's eyes travelled down to the plaque that was stamped underneath the portrait frame: '_Havelock Malfoy, 1787 – 1830_'. And underneath that, in smaller lettering, '_Banished for life from the Manor for excessive gambling, and obsessing over astronomy. Found dead in a well for not watching his step on a particularly starry night_.'

He seemed a perfectly normal person, for a Malfoy. Hermione muttered an apologetic, "Beg pardon," and arranged the cushions into their original positions, before asking him hurriedly, "Have you seen Draco Malfoy pass through here recently?"

Havelock looked thoughtful. "Well, um. I'm not too sure. I was busy looking at my diagrams." He cast a glance across the hallway. "Have you seen the boy, Celandine?"

Across the hallway was another portrait, this of a young, svelte-looking Veela, who was busy combing out her long, silvery locks before a gilt mirror with an ivory comb. She looked aloof and politely indifferent, and terribly beautiful. She glanced at Havelock nonchalantly before offering a simple, "You mean my grandson. Yes, he did pass through here."

She tinted her lips golden, absorbed with her reflection in her mirror. When it was obvious she didn't have anything else to say, Hermione asked in slight irritation, "Where did he go?"

"Tower Room," she answered simply, never lifting her gaze from the mirror. "He looked positively _livid_, and he was muttering to himself. It wasn't a pretty picture, unlike a certain portrait in this room." She flounced back a lock of thick, brilliant hair.

"Don't mind Celandine," Havelock muttered kindly, looking down at Hermione. "She's very pretty, and often vain. The Tower Room is on the East Wing, if you're wondering."

"Thank you," Hermione muttered breathlessly and sincerely, before dashing down the corridor at the speed of a miniature whirlwind.

"Please, wait –" Havelock continued, but Hermione had vanished behind the corner. "Oh, _drat_," he swore, "I was going to warn her about the hexes and the jinxes and the curses the boy had laced around the door."

"That's lovely," Celandine said in distracted irritation. "Don't you have something shiny to look at, Havelock?"

Grumbling, the aspiring astronomer turned back towards his star-studded parchment and diagrams. 

He was completely oblivious to the dark, thin sliver of shadow lurking in the gloomiest corners of the hallway, hugging the walls. The candles flickered as it passed through the hallway, as if they were quivering in terror. Silent and cloaked it moved …

Leaving no trail, and making no sound …

*                        *                        *                        *

The rainstorm began in town as soon as Lucius had finished berating the poor innkeeper about his poor security, which was perfect, considering an ominous clap of thunder and a flash of lightning had accompanied Lucius' threats and accusations.

When the rain began to pour, Lucius announced he'd stay inside the tavern till the storm was over, and he'd have a drink by the bar, thank you. The innkeeper nearly fainted in terror. Narcissa and Mrs. Parkinson were already seated, comparing newly-bought, glittery bracelets. 

Narcissa flashed a perfect grin, and a row of jewels encircling her wrist. "What do you think, Lucius?" she asked. "Do you think it looks pretty on me?"

He barely cast her a glance. "I wouldn't go displaying excessive amounts of jewellery in public, Narcissa. It could attract unwanted attention." He threw a cationary glance around the less-than crowded room as he sipped his Bloody Mary.

"Oh, come now, dear, that's what jewellery is for," Narcissa radiated. "And what bizarre and suicidal thief would want to steal from me, with _you_ by my side?" She slipped a hand through his arm.

Lucius met the gesture with polite indifference. "I didn't mean that kind of attention," he answered simply. "And I wasn't addressing that kind of jewellery …" He turned his gaze towards her. "Where's your necklace?"

Narcissa instinctively reached for the base of her throat and felt the comforting feel of the silver thread of her necklace and the peculiar, carved pendant. It gleamed strangely under her touch. "Around my neck," she answered sombrely. "Where it always is." 

"Good." Lucius took another sip of his drink, and gave a short glance at his wife. "And I think the bracelet looks lovely on you." Narcissa smiled. 

But the smile faded as soon as it met her lips, replaced by a slight frown. She distractedly muttered something about having a headache, before clutching her forhead in pain, then crying out and collapsing on the floor.

Lucius glanced down at the slumped body of his wife. "Oh, _damn_," he swore, greatly inconvenienced. He bent down and gazed upon Narcissa's limp and quivering frame, and she was apparently in great pain, as if fighting off a vivid nightmare. "She's having another," Lucius muttered.

The Parkinsons simply stared in stunned bewilderment. "Having another what?" Mr. Parkinson asked fearfully.

"_Vision_," Lucius murmured, as if it were the most normal thing to happen to anyone. "Alright, then. Narcissa, speak."

The sprawled figure of Narcissa Malfoy hardly moved. Her face was blank and her eyes were closed, her hair askew. Her mouth moved rapidly and silently, whispering softly:

"_Death awaits our son at the door, lingering and silent and terrible. Sent by a great and fearful power searching for pain, for vengeance. Our son is blinded by confusion and anger, and is helpless in his ignorance, and does not heed the warning cries of those that wish to save him …_"

Lucius watched, and listened. He turned to the crowd of shocked onlookers who had gathered, and nonchalantly asked, "Is anyone here taking notes?"

One by one, they slowly shook their heads.

"I supposed so," he said, and turned back towards Narcissa.

"_Death is luxurious,_" she continued. "_He lies in his coffin, still and white underneath the tear-stained earth. My son, my poor dear, Draco_ …"

"Alright, that's enough," Lucius interjected, shaking Narcissa slightly. Without turning, he reached out backwards. "Water, please."

A goblet was deposited in his hand. He placed the goblet against Narcissa's lips and let her drink, until her eyes burst open, bright with confusion and terror.

"Oh, _Lucius_," she gasped. "I don't want to do that again anytime soon."

"I'm sure," he muttered, dusting off his hands and standing up. "Well, one thing's for certain."

Mr. Parkinson was still recovering from shock. "What?" he asked dumbly.

Lucius' gaze was steely and distant, but his voice was earthly and tinged with darkness as he helped his wife to her feet. "Apparently I was wrong. There isn't anyone out to kill _me_," he murmured, "but someone's out to kill _Draco_."

Narcissa drew in breath sharply, and looked like she was ready to faint again. Lucius' voice stopped her from collapsing. "Narcissa … I'm afraid we'll be needing your necklace, very, very soon."

*                        *                        *                         *

Draco stood at the door that led to Tower Room, tossing a ball of scrunched parchment in the air, and catching it again. He finally caught it the last time, and held it tightly in his fist, as the pattering sound of footsteps grew louder behind him.

It was Hermione. She stared at the back of his head for a few moments as she tried to regain her breath, but as soon as he turned to face her, Hermione took a few steps back in alarm.

He looked painfully _livid_. She'd never seen such anger, or such shadows, in his eyes before.

"Hello, Granger," Draco greeted darkly. His voice was soft and tinged with malice. "I've noticed you've been very _busy_ lately."

"W – what do you mean?" she asked in alarm. She glanced at the paper in his hand.

"I mean _this_," Draco continued, smoothing out the piece of parchment in his fist. "Listen, Hermione … I want you to listen …

"'_I am being illegally held in Malfoy Manor_,'" Draco read from it, voice spiteful and bitter."'_A wizard named Barquel performed a prohibited form of magic in Knockturn Alley and transfigured me into a House-elf. Helpless in my form, I was auctioned off in a grotesque and crude manner to the Malfoys, who are now holding me in their custody. Please come and retrieve me. This is a matter of the utmost urgency. I wish to be restored to my original form as soon as possible, and request you respond immediately.__ I await your reply. Yours sincerely _…'" He cast a full gaze, full of hostility and hatred towards her. "'_Hermione Granger_.'" 

Hermione was speechless. She had forgotten completely about the letter, and when she saw it crumpled and clenched in Draco's fist, she felt as if her heart had stopped beating.

She wanted to say something, anything. Instead two slender tears trickled down to her cheeks. Her throat remained dry of words.

"Do you know what you could have caused my family?" Draco asked softly. The anger seemed to have faded from his voice, replaced by a soft, jagged bitterness. "Do you know how much trouble my Father already is in with the Ministry? Do you know how much pain this would cause my Mother?" He paced slowly towards her.

 "For a moment, I actually trusted a little bit in you, Hermione Granger." His voice was hard and guttural. "I suppose I shouldn't have."

Hermione's heart felt crushed. _Why does he have to speak like that? Why can't he raise his voice?_ she thought in torment._ Why does he make me feel so horrible_ … She turned to face him. "Draco, I'm –"

"You're what?" Draco snapped. "You're _sorry_?" he threw the scrunched parchment at her feet. "Do you know how much pain this has caused me?! Simply _sorry_ isn't enough to win my trust, Hermione, I cannot see it!"

"But I never –"

Draco gave a groan of anguish and fury, lifting his face to the ceiling and gripping his hair tightly. To Hermione and Draco's shock, a nearby tapestry suddenly burst into flames, igniting abruptly as if triggered by Draco's wrath.

For a moment, they stood in silence as the flames licked at the gold embroidery.

"It happens …" Draco muttered, staring at the flaming tapestry, its golden threads curling in the heat, " … when I'm angry." He threw a glance at Hermione, and this time they were filled with a steely, calm sullenness, likened to the ocean sky before a storm. "I have something for you."

He reached into his pocket. To Hermione's horror, he drew out a long piece of fabric, striped green and silver in Slytherin colours. It was a scarf. Like a noose, it dangled from Draco's hands.

"You're dismissed." Simply and hypnotically, he tossed the scarf towards Hermione, who caught it. Her eyes were bright with despair as she stared at the woven wool in her hands, soft and warm and smelling sweetly of melancholy and lilac. She looked up.

Meeting Draco's gaze, she saw a trace of colourless agony behind the shards of anger. With a single movement he opened the door and closed it softly behind him, and silently made his spiralling way upwards. 

Alone, Hermione sobbed into the scarf. 

She wept, because she was free.

*                        *                        *                        *


	14. Fourteen: The Calm, The Storm

My Life As A House-Elf

Chapter Fourteen – The Calm, the Storm

*          *            *            *

The firelight blazed ceremoniously unto the tall, silhouetted figure, as he stood leaning against the carved mantelpiece of the roaring fireplace. Outside, there were stars dotting the sky in glittering, random patterns, but no moon accompanied them, and the forests surrounding the Manor whispered in shadowed, powdery starlight.

Draco had his eyes closed, and the room was deathly silent. Occasionally his eagle owl – a regal-looking bird named Majestic – ruffled its feathers and gave a distracted cheep, but besides these, the only sounds filling the deafening silence were the mutterings of the forlorn fire.

But throughout Draco's turbulent mind, he heard echoing shouts, earth-shattering whispers, tormenting murmurs, ringing sobs.

"He's all alone in this huge, cold Manor … I wish I could help him some way …"

Draco swallowed hard; shut his eyes even tighter, willing himself not to feel the two slender trails falling softly across his cheeks, as if the blizzard within his eyes was finally thawing. "Damn her," he muttered. "Damn her, damn her, _damn her."_

He'd angered her before. He witnessed with satisfaction her fiery retorts and her flushed cheeks, and the offended blaze in her eyes when he uttered the name, '_Mudblood_.' His cheek still stung with the remnants of a harsh, fury-driven slap. He'd taken delight in her infuriated actions, enjoying the flaring outbursts of hate in her eyes, the furious head-tosses, and the spitting comments that countered his own.

But he never felt guilt before.

Majestic was suddenly agitated. Almost in an instant, the silence of the room was shattered by ear-splitting shrieks.

Draco watched in faint irritation at the alarmed owl, almost falling over itself, tumbling from the carved golden perch in frenzy. "Shut up, you pathetic bird!" Draco snarled, throwing a shred of firewood at the owl. "What's wrong with you?"

Majestic threw its master one confused, doomed look, before gently flapping over to the barred window. It tapped frantically at the thick glass. It seemed to want to get away, and quickly.

"Oh _fine," Draco snapped, striding towards the bolted window, and throwing it open with an Unlocking Charm. "Leave me. I won't care."_

Majestic hopped gratefully onto the window ledge, and almost immediately launched itself onto the warm night air, and into the moonless night. Draco watched as his owl fled away till it was nothing but a dot in the cobalt horizon. He re-cast the Binding Hex around the window and drew the blinds, wondering what could have alarmed his owl so much.

Majestic, meanwhile, was relieved to have finally fled from that cold tower … just an instant before, he sensed a peculiar, sinister spectre threading its way into the Manor, its presence like a faint scent of oncoming shadow. Majestic didn't want to be anywhere _near_ the Manor when it chose to arrive.

*          *            *            *

It was a moonless night. A tiny figure dressed in partly-wet rags stood at the doorway of Malfoy Manor, staring out in silent disbelief at the dark, unlighted sky.

Hermione cursed, then threw numerously objects around in a brief spell of despair, but stared bleakly out into the cloudy, cyan heavens still stained with lingering traces of evening storm. There wasn't a single trace of moon in the sky, and the stars seemed to glimmer in subtle confusion, as if they were missing something very important. Hermione sighed unhappily, twisted her fingers into the scarf in her hands, and wondered.__

Her original plan involved stealing numerous items from the Manor – which included a dress, and a wand (Pansy could afford replacements) – then running barefoot across the elegant countryside towards the nearest town for help. This included any sort if help. An owl to deliver a letter, a pinch of Floo Powder, a kind person to give her a ride to the Leaky Cauldron.

From there, her elaborate plan came to a dead still.

Hermione still held Pansy's stolen wand in hand, and Draco's scarf in the other, breathing out in a slow, tired sigh. _How am I going to get home? she thought morosely, glancing out at the moonless sky, then at her mottled green hands._

She still worried about Draco.

A sharp pang pierced her heart when she thought of him again, biting deep and tender, to be replaced by a frosty bitterness. _He released me, she thought, __it was his own fault and his own desperate stubbornness that he never listened to me. Biting her lip, she wondered if she truly believed this. She felt oddly cold, though the night was warm._

Suddenly she heard footsteps behind her. What looked like to be an unstoppable blizzard of beige ruffles and silver sequins turned out to Pansy Parkinson, who looked exceptionally furious. She crossed the Great Hall like a hurricane.

"You!" she shrieked, descending upon Hermione in a truly awesome spectacle of cream-coloured poufs. She jabbed a finger at Hermione. "_You_ took my wand! _You_ took my robes! _You_ stole them from me! Explain, you wretched little elf, before I skewer you with my nails!"

Hermione shivered at the imagery of the threat. She thought fast. "Um. I'm taking them away," she said in a rush, "for cleaning."

There was a thick, significant pause. Pansy furrowed her eyebrows, muttering something under her breath. Supposing Pansy had believed her, Hermione said, "Excuse me, Ma'am," and tentatively made her way pass the pink-robed figure.

The collar of her pillow-case garment was suddenly seized. "I never asked them to be cleaned," Pansy said, in a very sinister, very icy tone of voice, clutching Hermione's robe in an iron grip. "And all the House-elves address me as _Mistress_, or Miss Parkinson." Her lips formed a thin, dangerous smile, almost Snape-like in its cold menace. "Who are you?" she demanded. "What do you want here? Who sent you?"

The white marble floors, the night time dark and the brilliant chandelier light seemed to melt away and shift slightly around Hermione, spiralling away into unfocused pallor. _By this time tomorrow, the boy will be dead_ … like a burn, the threat was clearly impressed in her mind. Hermione's thoughts raced, seeming to hover between dread and sickening fear, between hope and spiralling courage. 

She thought of finally going home, finally being free of this cold and empty Manor, never having to run across hallways, fetching petty items, or drag horrendous items from chimneys.

She also thought of moonlit nights, whispering candles, and sighing starlight. She thought of midnight debates and brooding firelight, darkness and stormy grey skies. With a sad smile, Hermione said, "I'm not going home. Not just yet. I'm still needed here."

She snapped her fingers. And vanished.

Realizing she was now keeping a firm hold of nothing but of thin air, Pansy frowned. She heard distant, light footsteps bound upwards. Then regaining her composure, she flounced after in an avenging, fawn-coloured blur, calling out in a battle cry, "Give that wand back this _instant!_"

*          *            *            *

Draco Malfoy shifted slowly in bed, already asleep. He dreamt of milky-white starry skies scattered with piercing black stars, he dreamt of music boxes and empty ballrooms. While he transcended from one dream to another, he could still curiously hear Hermione's voice, echoing brilliantly throughout the realms of sleep.

_"If you refuse to listen to my words,"_ he heard her say, while he walked across candle-lit space, _" then at the very moment before you step onto the brink of oblivion, know this: During the moonlit nights when the candles whispered and the starlight sighed, my heart was yours, and always will be." _

Draco breathed in, and could almost smell the perfume of her hair. He reached out to catch hold of her hands, but the candles whined softly as if they had been caught in the rain, and they extinguished gently, leaving Draco caught in an overwhelming pool of dark.

He tried to breathe. Couldn't. He tried to wake up, shake off the watery dreams, tried to draw in a breath, but his chest ached with the effort.

He opened his eyes.

And screamed.

*          *            *            *

Outside, a dark carriage the colour of night stopped beside the oaken doors of Malfoy Manor. The horses whinnied in anxiety as soon as they approached the Manor, as if they sensed something the passengers could not, stamping the dusty ground in desperation to get away. The driver desperately tried to calm them, apologising profusely to his master and mistress inside.

A tall, sable-cloaked figure stepped out of the carriage. His robes billowed behind him like great, black wings; his grey eyes scanned the area like a hawk's.

"Quickly, Lucius!" a voice called from the curtained depths of the carriage. Narcissa Malfoy wrenched the necklace from her neck with spectacular force, and handed it anxiously to Lucius. "Here, take it, and be quick! I can hear it  – it's already in the Manor –"

Lucius Malfoy strode into the glimmering hallway, his heavy footsteps nearly causing the hallway to shudder in echo. He surveyed the Great Hall with a sharp, piercing scepticism, searching for ornaments out of place, bits of finery missing, or a blazing, fiery a trail of carnage and disorder. 

When he saw the spotless marble and the suits of armour still lined in their orderly, methodical stances, he became extremely worried. A House-elf timidly stepped forward to take the Master's cloak, but Lucius simply regarded him indifferently.

"It's started already, hasn't it?" he asked softly, with gravity. And, without another word, he strode towards the marble steps and ascended quickly, drawing his wand as he went.

*          *            *            *

Draco grappled with the shadows, sparred powerlessly against the dark. He couldn't breathe, he was blind, the silence was deafening in his ears. He was engulfed in terror. Nothing was worse than this, fighting against an invisible, silent enemy. He felt as if his eyes, his throat, his mouth were filled with black, wet clay, suffocating him – blinding him –

Desperately, he reached underneath his pillow for his wand, tangling his fingers in the sheets in search of it. It wasn't there … his hand reached out and grasped nothing.

He felt his chest being crushed, his lungs crumple underneath the weight of suffocation, his body growing colder, colder, as he slipped towards unconsciousness. His throat screamed for a breath of air, but what was left of his voice instead cried out, in volume that nearly shook the Tower apart –

_"Hermione Granger, help me!"_

That was when everything that could possibly happen, happened all at once.

*          *            *            *

Beneath, the doors leading towards the Tower Room flew open at the sound of Draco's voice.

Hermione Granger and Pansy Parkinson rounded into the hallway leading towards the doors, and, seeing the them fly open as if being torn by a massive, invisible force, they surged forward. Hermione was first to reached the doorway. She brushed past all the defensive spells woven about the doorway as if they were cobwebs, and ascended the stairs with an unearthly speed.

Pansy, meanwhile, crashed unceremoniously into the shield of hexes, and was blown back with a force that knocked the air from her lungs. She stared in breathless outrage at the advancing form of the House-elf before her, carrying her wand.

"Oh _perfect_," she managed to gasp, "How magnificent. _Go_, then …" She leaned back gracefully and dropped in a dead faint, the effects of the Dizziness Hex taking over.

Hermione climbed the stairs with staggering agility. The clamber seemed to take forever; each step took and eternity to climb, each second stretched farther than Hermione could understand. A burning flame had taken residence where her fear should have been, and it consumed her heart in blazing curiosity …

Later, Hermione would recall that climb on those stairs. She would say, fondly, how in those desperate moments, she had felt nothing but strength – windmill winds where gravity should have been. She thought of no one else but Draco. Her resentment had melted away, her anger broken off like a husky shell … like a phoenix rising from her ashes, she thought, discarding the embers of her previous life. Like a phoenix.

The stairs ended in a staggering stop. The room was encased in billowing clouds of darkness, and the air was frozen in a remarkable chill. The fireplace harboured nothing but shadow and cold, black darkness, and the candles perched upon the walls stood unlit. 

Hermione glanced through the darkness, towards the bed. The canopy curtains were billowing back in the frost-bitten wind, the window nearby had been broken – shards of glass lay scattered across the carpet. From the bed, two shadows sparred, fought in deep blackness, and the greater shadow – what seemed to be a frightening, thick sheet of the deepest night, with wings spread like ribbons of black flame – overpowered the smaller of the two.

Draco gave a strangled cry.

Hermione closed her eyes in desperation. _Happy memories_, she summoned. _Happy memories … _Gryffindor winning the House Cup. Scoring perfect marks in Transfiguration. Reaching the top of the class in Arithmancy. Spending the night at the Burrow, with Ron and Ginny and Harry.

She thought of sunlit gardens, moonlit nights, a pair of cloud-grey eyes staring into hers. She breathed in; opening her eyes with a determined spark, and knew.

_"Expecto Patronum!"_

A silver light shot from Hermione's wand.

*          *            *            *


	15. Fifteen: The Intervention

My Life As A House-Elf -

Chapter Fifteen: The Intervention

*          *          *          *

 "_Expecto Patronum!_" Hermione cried.

A thin, silvery band of light shot from the tip of the wand. The room was filled, floor to ceiling, with intense, bright light, streaming like furious, white rapids into the darkness of the room.

Hermione shielded her eyes from the blinding light. She heard the Lethifold scream, a horrible, high-pitched cry, followed by the sounds of toppling furniture and shattering glass as it moved about the room, trying vainly to hide from the summoned guardian. Pandemonium broke forth.

She dared a peek through her fingers, and stared in delight at her Patronus, a magnificent silver otter leaping across the broken furniture as if it were darting across river rapids. Its miniscule, silver paws sprouted delicate little claws, its mouth ringed with tiny teeth.

Hermione was quite pleased with her Patronus. But she could congratulate herself later, she thought, and, not sparing another glance at the battling Lethifold and silver otter, she dashed towards Draco's bed, anxious to see if he was all right.

She approached to see him, still and unconscious. He lay tangled amongst the crumpled sheets, as if he had been struggling earlier on, and his usually precise, swept back blonde hair was lying unkempt and damp against his forehead. He also hardly seemed to be breathing, and this frightened Hermione worse of all.

"Oh, _please_, be alright," she whispered fraughtly, pressing her fingers close to the base of his neck, feeling for a pulse. When she touched his skin, she gasped. It was ice cold. And he looked ashen and deathly pale, as if he'd been dipped in moonlight. Then – _there_ – she felt it, a pulse, though it was very faint, very weak. 

Draco Malfoy was still alive, though barely.

Hermione resisted the urge to laugh in devastating triumph, or cry in shattering relief, or throw herself, sobbing, against the bed. Instead, she took a deep breath, gathered her frayed wits, and summoned whatever elfin magic there was still left in her.

She snapped her fingers.

Draco was lifted, hovering upon the enchantment of a simple Levitating Charm. Tiny, smoky clouds curled underneath him. Quietly, Hermione stole towards the door, keeping her eyes solely on Draco, ignoring the furious battle cries around her. She concentrated on the solitary, simple purpose of getting Draco towards the safety of the door.

A panicked shriek caused her to look up.

Her valiant little Patronus, darting around like a little silver arrow, had been far too nimble and courageous in its fight. The Lethifold held its helpless frame in its grasp. It still snapped defiantly – though fruitlessly – at the Lethifold's dark frame, letting out rebellious cries every minute.

Her Patronus was fading. The enchantment wasn't strong enough, she thought in despair, as the Lethifold strove to conquer the fading light. The Patronus made a desperate attempt to flee. Paws scrabbled against ensnaring shadow. But, too late, the Lethifold's members slowly began to constrict, coiling rapidly like vines around the otter's weakening form.

"No!" Hermione screamed. But the light soon began to fade … and, in a flurry of sparks, the Patronus faded, followed by a deathly silence.

The room was once again shrouded in darkness.

*          *          *          *

Lucius Malfoy was not having a very pleasant evening.

Not only was dinner called off, his appetite spoiled, and his day in town withdrawn prematurely; and not only was Narcissa still quite shaken and needed several glasses of wine to calm her – but there was something in his house, roaming through his hallways, determined to murder his son.

It was like a rather mild nightmare, he thought, although Lucius Malfoy had been waiting for this stage in fatherhood for ages, and Narcissa had been predicting subtle deaths everywhere these past few weeks. 

He knew it was going to happen. He just didn't expect _when_.

Lucius breathed out a livid sigh, and turned his gaze towards a nearby portrait of a rather wise-looking Malfoy, who, at this moment, was hiding ineffectively behind his cabinet bedecked in ivory and silver.

"Pardon, Ophiuchus," said Lucius, tapping his cane against the portrait's gilt frame, "come out of there and tell me what's going on."

The elderly wizard strode out, glancing around himself nervously, before seating himself at a desk strewn with numerous herbs. A large, green snake was coiled in a shallow dish on the desk, apparently asleep. The wizard began rolling himself a cigarette. "Is it gone?" he asked cautiously.

"Is _what_ gone?" asked Lucius, eyes narrowed dangerously.

"All the portraits are talking about it," Ophiuchus muttered. "It's some sort of dark creature in the Manor, and we're not its masters! Imagine that! Back in the day, we used to have a _whole_ menagerie of Kappas and Redcaps –"

"Just tell me where it's going, Ophiuchus, and I'll leave you to smoke in peace," Lucius snapped irritably, giving his ancestor a wintry gaze.

Ophiuchus finished rolling his cigarette, and lighted it with his wand. "Oh yes, thank you. It's heading for the Tower Room, if you really must know. Do you smoke, Lucius?"

"Only when set on fire," answered Lucius, striding out of the hallway towards a nearby set of stairs.

 A noise of clanking steel behind him diverted his attention. He threw a glance backwards. What met his eyes didn't exactly match up to his expectations. 

The suits of armour lining the halls (which hadn't moved an inch in centuries), suddenly stepped down from their usual stances, and stood to attention in the hallway like a squadron of peculiar knights. Their slightly rusty joints squeaked as they moved, and their unused iron weapons glittered in the firelight. One of them was carrying a faded banner with the Malfoy's coat-of-arms burnished on the black velvet. Once in line, they marched to stand behind Lucius, silent and waiting for command.

Of _course_, Lucius thought. The old enchantments were working again. Back in the earliest centuries of the Malfoys – when their lives were being constantly threatened by jealous rivals, scheming enemies, and sometimes the royal families if several European countries vying for revenge – they would think of many spectacular ways to protect themselves.

The ancient stones of the Manor house were riddled with ages of protective charms and curses, all designed to trigger whenever a Malfoy's life was in danger. They hadn't come to life for generations (The armour themselves hadn't stirred ever since the time of Octavius Malfoy, who had nearly burnt the Manor down during the Dragon years).

_I think the Army of Armour was great-great-great-great grandaunt Deirdre's idea_, Lucius supposed, as he regarded the dozen or so suits assembled behind him. _Oh well_.

"Tower Room, then," he said, marching forwards.

The hall shook underneath their synchronised footsteps.

*          *          *          *

 "Stay _back!_" Hermione warned the approaching Lethifold. "Don't you dare come any closer, or I'll feed you to my furious, disgruntled cat, then you'll be sorry!"

"Granger?" a voice called, soft, tired and strained, behind her. "What are you doing here?"

Hermione spun around, to see Draco rise uncertainly to lean on his elbows. Hermione lost control of the Levitating Charm. Draco wobbled in midair, then fell a good six inches onto the floor with a dull thump and a suppressed groan, lying on the polished wood apparently wincing in pain.

Hermione's forehead creased. "Sorry," she muttered.

"Never enough," said Draco, and then he added, with a trace of matter-of-factness, "You're not human yet."

"There's no moon tonight," Hermione answered. "Are you alright?"

"That was a really stupid threat, you know," Draco said frankly, staring straight at her. His grey fevered eyes lingered on her for a moment, before it began to dawn upon him that there was a _Lethifold_ in the room, and it had tried to _kill_ him a few minutes earlier.

"Um, Granger, have you looked behind you?" he asked, a note of suppressed panic in his voice.

Hermione looked, and watched as the streaming shroud of dark hovered from shadow to shadow. Then turned back towards him. She nodded calmly, lips pursed. "Oh yes."

"And did you notice that there is a Lethifold there in the corner?"

"I did."

"This may sound surprising, but it tried to kill me a moment ago."

"I know."

"Then shall we move along?" Draco asked, glancing towards the door. "I don't think any one of us want to linger around and be eaten."

Hermione rolled her eyes. _Of course not_, she thought, looking at him in slight anxiety and annoyance. "Can you walk?" she demanded.

Draco tried pushing himself onto his arms. Then suddenly he cried out and collapsed, falling onto the floorboards. His hand was clutching uncertainly at his chest, and when he drew it back, it was stained bright with blood.

"Oh God," he swallowed, "that thing has teeth." Then he threw such a look of desperation in Hermione's direction, she felt her own heart twist painfully. "I'm going to die," he continued, in the same monotonous voice. "I'm going to die and I haven't won Quidditch against Potter yet."

"Don't be silly," Hermione said, throwing a look behind her in panic as the Lethifold began to cautiously advance on to them. "You thought you were going to die in your Third Year after getting just a tiny scratch from a Hippogriff, and you didn't. Now stay still, I'm going to lift you."

"So many things I haven't done," Draco continued, "I haven't told Father I actually memorized the entire Malfoy family Code. I haven't told Mother how lovely her singing voice is. I …" he threw a look towards Hermione. "I haven't even properly fallen in love yet."

"Now isn't the time to be making jokes!" Hermione said, trying to keep her voice steady. Blood was beginning to blossom across the carpet, already staining Draco's robes dark red. She was afraid. Fear wasn't something she was particularly proud of. Hermione didn't like being afraid, especially if it meant being afraid for _him_.

"I wasn't making a joke," Draco murmured solemnly, before he closed his eyes and lapsed once more into unconsciousness. His breathing became irregular, riddled with sighs and racking sobs.

Hermione couldn't concentrate hard enough to summon enough magic for a Levitating Charm. She couldn't. All she could think was Draco, Draco, Draco, and spared plenty of thought for death and how it was true: Draco was going to die, and it was going to be all her fault, all her fault.

_You're immensely pathetic_, she told herself, in anger, frustration, fear. _You're going to abandon him in the time he would need you most, and no matter which exam you pass, or whatever brave deed you'll do in the future - if there is any future, you cannot undo this mistake you made, or bring him back_.

She threw herself in the path of the Lethifold, trying whatever desperate act of protection she could muster. She sobbed. She was expecting something terrible to happen: the Lethifold to fatally close in, enveloping them both in murk and shadow, before tearing them to bite-sized shreds, devouring them, and leaving quietly through the window without a single trace of them left to mourn over.

Instead, she heard Lucius Malfoy's voice.

"That's enough," he demanded firmly, stepping into the shadowy twilight of the room. "You," he pointed his cane harshly towards Hermione, "get the boy out of here. And you all," he directed his gaze behind him, "surround all possible exits."

Hermione stared, open-mouthed, as Lucius stepped aside to give way to a marching squadron of _knights_.

_No, they aren't knights_, she thought in disbelief;_ they're the suits of armour lining the Manor halls! _There were about a dozen of them, lining the circular walls like an army of toy tin soldiers. They blocked the windows and barricaded the door with their shining, metallic forms. The Lethifold hissed, troubled the find all its exit routes blocked. It let out a horrible shriek of rage.

"Petty," Lucius muttered in irritation, reaching into his robes. Hermione expected him to draw out his wand, but curiously, his hand emerged to clutch a thin, silver chain, on which dangled a tiny, curiously shaped pendant.

Narcissa's necklace.

It glimmered curiously like a star; faint trails of light drifting off the necklace like luminous, enchanted smoke. On closer look, Hermione noticed that the charm hanging delicately from the end of the silver chain was in the tiny, carved shape of a dragon, spinning swiftly as it hung down and it seemed to be –

 … _singing_.

Lucius held the band high above his head.

"_Invocarem Amuletum!_" he summoned.

The chain seemed to burst into light. Hermione screened her eyes from the bright flare, only looking forward when the light began to take shape, like a birthing star. 

It was a fascinating spectacle: shafts of light flew from the pendant to join a greater body, forming elegant, powerful wings, and majestic talons.

Rolling thunder shook the room from floor to ceiling, causing the chandelier to sway and the wooden beams to shudder. Silver threads gathered at the regal head of the creature to form bright, searing eyes, and a garland of sparks joined to form a crown of horns at the base of its head.

The Patronus, freed from the necklace by a Guardian Charm, let out a purring roar, spreading its elegant wings and rearing its head to tower above the Lethifold. Hermione had never seen anything so bright, so impressive, in all her life, nothing so intimidating. The Guardian emitted threat and glory.

The Lethifold cowered, silent. It was destroyed in a matter of seconds. With a blistering gaze, the Patronus breathed out a searing, frothing wave of silvery flame, engulfing the Lethifold in smoky clouds and fire.

What was left in its place was plenty of charred furniture, ruined stone walls and flaming tapestries. Lucius sighed.

_This is going to be expensive_, he thought. Holding the necklace out again, he summoned the Guardian and watched it thread back into the swinging pendant, like one would whistle a call to a puppy. The pendant glowed brightly; then it dimmed, before it returned to its normal, unspectacular state.

Lucius directed his gaze back to Hermione. "Didn't I ask you to get Draco out of this room?" he asked contemptuously. "Or do I have to ask again?"

"N-no, Master," Hermione stammered, finally finding enough magic within her to cast a Levitating Charm. Draco hovered upon a drifting cloud of smoke before Lucius.

The older Malfoy poked his son's shoulder harshly, ordering him, "Get up, boy."

Draco groaned slightly, then lapsed into a fit of violent coughing. Lucius stared at the bloodstains, then at Draco, his expression never changing from one of stony indifference.

"I can't stay long," Draco said simply, his voice labored as he spoke, "I have to save that fool, Hattie …"

"You're to take him to his room," ordered Lucius as he stared towards Hermione, "and tend to him till the family doctor arrives. Try to stop the bleeding if you can."

He waved a gloved hand towards the suits of armour standing by the door, and walked past them as they parted. Lucius' footsteps echoes down the stairway.

Hermione glanced worriedly at Draco, who swiftly began to descend into an exhausted sleep again. His eyes remained on her as they closed.

"I won't leave," she said sombrely, taking Draco's hand and bringing him towards the door. "I promise, I won't."

They passed through the open doorway, flanked by two of the silent, enchanted guards, marching down the staircase out of the horrible Tower Room.

Meanwhile, above in the wooden beams, a small, unnoticeable, winged creature watched intently as they left, before spreading its gauzy wings, and taking flight upon the cool, nighttime breeze…     

 *          *          *          *


	16. Sixteen: The Elaboration

My Life As A House-Elf

Chapter Sixteen – The Elaboration

*          *            *            *

Draco woke suddenly from sleep to see three rather sceptical individuals standing over him, muttering quietly. A lamp was held close to his face. Its searing light lit up their faces clearly, though it nearly blinded him.

"Hello, Mother," he muttered, voice dry. "Father …" He peered through the lamplight towards the third figure. It was the family physician.

"He seems to be alright," the Healer said, carefully removing the lamp and replacing it on the shelf. The figures before Draco were once more enveloped in darkness, standing starkly in the shadows like spectres.

"The bandaging is very well done," the Healer carried on, "and the bleeding stopped before it got too serious. The boy's fine."

Draco wanted to say something about _not being fine, he was bleeding to __death and his dreams aren't very reassuring either, but he felt immensely tired. Instead his listened sleepily to the doctor's medical drivel about him – get enough water into the boy, feed him some decent food, change the bandaging and cast Healing Charms often to prevent infection._

Lucius mentioned something about knowing how to take care of his own son, _thank_ you.

Hearing his father's voice startled Draco out of his reverie. He blinked and peered through the darkness, to see the tall, shadowy frame of Lucius Malfoy standing in the darkness.

"You may expect your payment transferred to your Gringgots account by morning, doctor," said Lucius tersely, his voice professional and polite. "Thank you for calling in at such an inconvenient time."

"It is my duty, Mr. Malfoy," the doctor said cordially, and, with a tip of his pointed hat, he Disapparated.

"Incompetent twit," Lucius muttered, as soon as he was gone.

Narcissa turned a concerned, milky-blue gaze towards Draco. The necklace was once more draped around her neck, and she was playing with it almost reflexively, twining the silver chain upon her finger. Her voice was gentle as she asked: "Are you alright, dear?"

"I'm _fine,_" Draco winced, a spasm of pain shooting through his chest. He changed his mind abruptly. "I'm in pain," he continued, "and I need dutiful care and attention. What happened to me?"

"You were attacked," answered Lucius plainly, "by a Lethifold. The Guardian in your mother's necklace was called upon, and the creature was destroyed before it could finish devouring you."

"The Guardian? You summoned the Guardian?" Draco asked in disbelief. That hadn't happened since … _oh, since Octavious Malfoy nearly burnt down the Manor in the Dragon years. _

"There's nothing odd about us summoning the family Guardian," Lucius answered tersely. "You would have been dead if I hadn't done it myself."

The Patronus, caught in something silver, was one of the family's best means of defence for generations. Narcissa kept it dangling from a pendant around her neck, presented to her by Lucius on their wedding day. It was a token of protection. No one expected it to be used at all – but _then_, no one expected Lethifolds, either.

Lucius' statement was followed by a lengthy silence. The lamplight flickered, as if all the flames were leaning in curiously to listen to the conversation. Draco picked uncertainly at the hem of his covers, examining the coverlet's elaborate patterns with ardent concentration.

_There's something I should say …_Draco thought, his brow knotting with thought as he tried to think past the upwelling headache. _Something I forgot to say …_

"Well. I must be off now –" Lucius muttered contemptuously, "I have matters to attend to – important letters to write – ruined Manor to restore …" he adjusted his gloves and dissolved into the shadows, striding towards the doors.

_Something I have to say –_

"Father," Draco called. Though he said it quietly, his voice seemed to grow in volume as it echoed across the chasm-like room. He whispered as if he was trying to make his voice as indistinct as possible. 

Lucius' footsteps died abruptly.

Draco paused – for the first time in his life, at loss at what to say.

 – _then, finally, "Thank you," Draco said formally, distant and polite, "for getting rid of the Lethifold before it got rid of me." The sentence died with a note Draco didn't find very satisfactory._

He could not see his father's face in the shadows, nor distinguish where he was. The darkness was a shimmering, shiny curtain separating them both. Lucius' voice seemed to come disembodied and ethereal … as if he wasn't really there, and the shadows were answering for him. 

"I'm your _father, Draco," the darkness whispered. "Gratitude isn't necessary." _

The silence that followed satisfied everything they needed to say, voiceless shadows filling in the rest of the conversation. Narcissa, out of impulse, began stroking her son's hair in a very uncharacteristic and motherly fashion. Her eyes were bright and tinged with worry, her lips pursed with an almost-guilt.

Draco closed his eyes, in comfort and fatigue. The firelight faded, and his thoughts spiralled into starry nothing, the dreamy blackness lulling him to sleep. He'd tilted his face away from the candlelight, so no one could see the trickle of tears slide down his cheek.

*          *            *            *

Hermione spent the day as if she were walking in a dream.

The Manor, by daylight, appeared jaded and unreal – the hallways carried an air of polite indifference, and everything was silent, save for the chirping birdsong and the musical sound of splashing fountains.

It was exactly as Hermione pictured the rich to spend their holidays: bored, sighing, lavishly uninterested in everything around them. Nothing fascinating, except for the breeze whispering through the ivy on the roof, and the gentle tinkle of yawning chandeliers.

Lucius was far too busy overseeing the reconstruction of the ruined Tower Room and answering the questions of the occasional nosy reporter to issue any new orders to the House-elves – while Narcissa was constantly out in town on extravagant shopping trips, 'recovering' from her state of 'shock'. The Parkinsons had gone home – they were convinced the Manor wasn't safe anymore, and weren't planning on visiting anytime soon.

Suddenly idle, Hermione would find herself occasionally polishing a brass figure here, emptying a coal brazier there, or dusting out a random tapestry, all dreamily and half-heartedly. She would constantly glance out the tall, polished windows and stare into the rolling green countryside, sighing.

Her friends Topsy and Gilly would approach her with questions such as, "Hattie, what does '_Revolution' mean?" and, "Does Hattie like red paint?" – and she would answer them vaguely, with with a half-hearted smile. The only time she actually paid full attention when Gilly complained his ears were getting cold. That started Hermione thinking about knitted hats. But that was ages ago._

She knew she had been set free, and could go wherever she wished. She knew she could go to Knockturn Alley and find a remedy for her curse, she knew she could finally fly from Malfoy Manor and go _home. But instead, she preferred to stay. She wouldn't go, not just yet. She was waiting for something._

"When is he coming _out of there?" Hermione would irritably ask as she prepared herself for sleep in the House-elves dining hall for yet another night._

"Who is Hattie talking about?" Topsy asked, putting her banner aside (It was a stolen white tablecloth smeared with dollops of red paint).

"_Him_," Hermione replied scathingly. "Draco. He's been locked in his room for two days now. When are they going to let him out?"

"When the Healer says Master Draco is well, Topsy supposes," her friend replied, returning to her painting. She looked up at Hermione. "How does Hattie spell '_Welfare_'?"

Draco had been locked in his room for the past few days, and the family physician wouldn't allow anyone inside, except for his parents. Hermione was frequently irritated by the fact that she wasn't allowed in, not even to deliver a cup of tea. Though the Healer would constantly reassure Lucius and Narcissa that their son was recovering perfectly _fine_, Hermione wanted to see for herself how he was coming on.

_He's probably being spoilt rotten in there_, she thought poisonously, _lying luxuriously on his bed and pretending he was in dire pain, while being waited on hand and foot. I'd like to give him a tight slap, and see how'd he heal from _that.

Finally, she got her chance.

"Master Draco would like to see his House-elf," the Healer announced with a queer stare, stepping out of the bedroom with his hat tucked underneath his shoulder. He dropped his gaze to Hermione, who was crouched low next to the bedroom door, silently knitting what seemed to be a grey, misshapen hat.

"He wants to see _me?" she asked, dropping her knitting instantly._

The Healer nodded. "Very strange. He was snapping constantly about no one understanding of his extreme misery, and then he requested to see you. Ah … I must see Master Lucius … my bills haven't been paid …" the Healer dropped his wand into his bag and rushed down the hallway in a flurry of distraction.

Hermione strode into the room.

Sitting at the side of his bed, a copy of _The Daily Prophet balanced in his lap, was Draco Malfoy. He was not wearing a shirt – instead, rolls of white bandages were wrapped around his abdomen, and this seem to be causing him great discomfort – and his hair was uncombed and askew, falling over his eyes, which were furrowed in an expression of profound thought._

He noticed Hermione come in. "Oh, you," he muttered, putting away the newspaper. "Yes, I wanted to see you. I forgot to ask you something." Draco turned to face her, confronting. His gaze was level and sombre. "_Why?_" 

Hermione raised her eyebrows. "What?"

"Why did you do it," he continued, crossing his arms. When the bandaging across his chest didn't permit him to do this comfortably, he uncrossed them and settled to place them leisurely at his hips. "Why did you bother to save me from the Lethifold, when I had clearly set you free?"

His accusatory tone hit Hermione's nerves. "_Well_," she huffed, glaring at him, "that's a peculiar way of saying thank you! Oh yes, I _could have left you to die spectacularly and read your obituary in the papers, but I didn't. Instead I selflessly tried to save you. I rushed to the Tower Room without thought of myself, threw myself in the Lethifold's path and had no reason to do so. The _least_ you could do is say thank you."_

She spun around and was determined to head towards the doors, but she realized she had been vying to get inside his room for days. So she sat on a couch instead. Facing _away_ from him. She hoped he would get the hint that she was very unhappy.

The rustling of paper behind her signalled that Draco was reading _The Daily Prophet_ again. A few pages were turned. Then, very softly, as if he wasn't planning to be heard, Draco muttered, "Thank you."

Hermione turned around, eyes accusatory. "I _beg_ your pardon?" she prompted.

"I said," Draco strained through gritted teeth, "thank you. Thank you for not reading my obituary in the papers. Thank you for not leaving me to die. Thank you," he threw a glaring look in Hermione's direction, "for making me feel like an absolute bastard for not saying thank you."

With this as a final note, he threw himself back into his bed – and then clutched agonizingly at his stomach, wincing in pain. Hermione stood up suddenly.

"What's happening?" she asked, voice slightly tense. "Are you hurt?" Then she realized how anxious she sounded. "Not that I care," she added.

"I'm dying in bizarre and spectacular ways," Draco said breathlessly. "My bandages are far too uncomfortable." He suddenly looked thoughtful. "Death by bondage. Now _that's something to read in the papers."_

Hermione found herself laughing. She stopped herself just in time.

Draco stared at her, apparently perplexed. Then, fluidly, he got up and retrieved the copy of the _Daily Prophet from the bedside shelf._

"Have you read this, Granger?" he asked, tossing it in Hermione's direction. She caught it and stared at the front page.

Looking back at her was a black-and-white picture of herself, sitting patiently by Draco's bedroom doors, knitting a pair of gloves absent-mindedly and smiling slightly. 

She didn't remember posing for any photos. Rita Skeeter must have found a new way of infiltrating buildings and getting photographs that shouldn't really be published.

The story underneath read:

_"Relationship Between Master and Servant – How A House-elf Saved Her Master's Life!_

_(told to you truthfully by Rita Skeeter)._

_"The spectacular relationship between servant and master cannot be any stronger than the one featured here. In an article told in _The Daily Prophet_ on August 1st, young Draco Malfoy – son of the illustrious Hogwarts school governer and Ministry worker, Lucius Malfoy – was nearly murdered in his own home by a Lethifold, if it weren't for his dutiful House-elf._

_"The valiant little servant threw herself into the Lethifold's path just before Lucius Malfoy himself stepped into the fray and disposed of the dark creature. Right before Draco was carried to safety, the elf had pledged, 'I won't leave, I promise I won't.'_

"Such a bond between servant and master is indeed rare."

Hermione put the paper down. "I did not say that," she said sombrely. "And it was your father who did all the work."

Draco gave a small laugh. "Apparently Rita's views didn't agree with my father," he sighed. "And she wrote this article as a sign of revenge towards him. Oh – " he added, stretching luxuriously into his bed, "she was in the rafters during the attack. She probably knew about the murder attempt and knew what a good story it would make, even if I lived or died. She listened to every word being said."

There was a deep, undisturbed pause between them. The air seemed thicker than a fog, and the room was as silent as an tense exam hall during the OWLs. Hermione felt exquisitely uncomfortable. Then she coughed. 

"Do you have August 1st's copy of the _Daily Prophet?_" she asked.

Draco rooted underneath his bed. He was still carrying that air of studious silence, brow furrowed slightly in a contemplative stare. "Here," he said, tossing the paper towards Hermione. He returned to leaning back into his bed and staring dreamily at the canopy.

Hermione gazed at the front page article.

_"Almost-Murder at Malfoy Manor!_ - it read,

_"A strange occurance took place at the Malfoy residence two nights ago, on the 2nd of August. Rita Skeeter writes:_

_"Draco Malfoy - the only son of Hogwarts school governer and prestigious Ministry worker, Lucius Malfoy - was nearly the victim of what seemed to be an elaborate murder plan. On the 31st night of July, at approximately seven minutes to midnight, the Malfoy's Wiltshire manor had been breached by a Lethifold._

_"Lethifolds – considered 'Extremely Dangerous' by the Ministry of Magic - are dark creatures that devour their victims while they sleep, departing without a single trace of the victim, leaving Aurors baffled by the apparent disappearance. The creature is described as, 'resembling a thick, black cloak' in, 'Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them' by Newt Scamander (Obscurus Books)._

_"Wizarding authorities had speculated that this particular Lethifold was a wild specimen that evaded capture in last month's Lethifold Obliteration Act - although certain other parties confirmed otherwise._

_"After receiving advice from the incensed Lucius Malfoy, the Ministry acted against Murdoc MacNair, a Ministry worker in the Disposal of Magical Creatures Department. Authorities have marked him as the mastermind behind an elaborate murder plot - involving a Lethifold - against Mr. Malfoy's son._

_"Mr. Malfoy quotes, 'He [MacNair] had been breathing down the back of my neck for far too long … I suspect he had been planning this endeavour for months.'_

_"Substantial evidence has been found to testify against Mr. Macnair -  instruments of dark origin were found in his tavern room  in a town nearby to the Manor, as well as numerous, dangerous tomes containing information on how to control magical beasts._

"Mr. MacNair is being withheld temporarily in the Ministry's Department of Mysteries. The said Lethifold has been destroyed by the Malfoy family Guardian."

"Well," she put the article down. "That explains a lot of things."

Draco cast her a curious look, questioning.

"Someone was trying to murder you," she said in reply. "Two people – talking in the Topiary Gardens – they were apparently plotting your demise. But you wouldn't listen to me."

Draco narrowed his eyes, getting more and more impatient. "What do you mean, I wouldn't listen to you?"

"I tried to warn you about the murder attempt," she answered, glaring. "I heard people talking in the gardens – I listened to every word. I wanted to tell you."

"Why didn't you?" Draco asked, exasperated.

"Because," Hermione said hotly, her voice growing louder, "you were far too busy hopping into bed with Pansy Parkinson to notice me!"

Draco stared at her in reply, apparently speechless. There was a profound silence. 

Then, presently, he began to laugh.

*          *            *            * 


	17. Seventeen: The One Winged Owl

My Life as a House-Elf

Chapter Seventeen – The One-Winged Owl

*          *          *          *

If there was anything Hermione hated more than incompetent blonde brats, badly timed curses, and House-elf enslavement, it was an ill-fitting dress with far too many sequins.

Outside, it was midnight. The light of the tiny full moon was bright against the coffee-black sky, framed by a mass of sugary stars. It looked lonely, distant and vague.

Hermione thought there wouldn't be enough moonlight for her transformation, but here she was, fully human, draped in something flimsy and extravagant. The dress she wore fell elegantly from her shoulders, ending in a white, fluffy mass of besequinned feathers that whispered as she moved. 

Hermione hated it. 

Although it was comfortable, she felt strange wearing it – she supposed it would look almost tasteful if she were a few inches taller and had long, blonde hair. She stared sullenly at her bare shoulders and plunging neckline. _Trust Draco to pick out something far from appropriate_, she thought.

As Hermione thought about him, so did she start to remember the past few days' events: She had just saved Draco Malfoy, her long-time arch nemesis, from an elaborate murder attempt. The suspect – a certain Mr, McNair, who had strategically placed a Lethifold in the Manor and looked to blame Lucius Malfoy for the crime – had been apprehended, and now awaited trail. Meanwhile, the Manor's Tower Room was left in ruins after the Malfoys' protective Guardian Charm burnt the furniture, the carpets and the curtains in a moment of pure destructive glory.

Throw in an interesting curse which turned her House-elf by day and human by moonlight, saving the life of her worst enemy and not minding it one bit, as well as trying to lead a squadron of kitchen-working House-elves into the beginnings of a Revolution … and Hermione would have summed up her summer quite well.

_When will I ever have a normal life again?_ Hermione thought, sighing. 

But the question that she really wanted to ask herself was, _why?_

Why couldn't she just have fled the Manor when she had the chance? Why couldn't she have left McNair to his own vengeful deed? Why couldn't she just have minded her own business, and left the Malfoys to handle their own petty little rivalries on their own?

Then – she realized – the answer lay sprawled upon the bed, wrapped in bandages and a bathrobe, reading idly from _The Quidditch Digest._

"Are you done back there?" Draco said, the casual drawl of his voice stirring her thoughts. "Or perhaps you'd like to marvel at my mother's explosive dress sense a bit more?"

Hermione stepped briskly from behind the dressing screen. "I'd prefer it," she said, "it didn't look like a swan was killed, and had all its feathers glued to the hem of the dress in a moment of severe prejudice. Besides that, it looks alright."

Draco didn't say anything for awhile. The bottom half of his face was shielded by the spreadsheet of _The Quidditch Digest, while his eyes stared levelly from over the top of the pages, gazing directly at Hermione._

There was something different in those eyes – they had somehow lost most of their artificial silver glitter, to be replaced with something greyer and stormier, like the threat of oncoming rain.

Hermione frowned. She wondered if Draco was laughing silently and mockingly at her awkward modelling of the dress, or sceptically eyeing for rips and tears she might have caused when she was slipping it on. Then she realized he was staring at her – not the dress.

Hermione reached for her bare shoulders. Her cheeks were beginning to colour slightly.

Draco blinked and shook his head slightly. "Um," he muttered, and added hastily, "I don't suppose you've seen the papers today, Granger."

No, she hadn't. Hermione recalled spending the entire day boiling hot water for dressing Draco's bandages, making his tea, fluffing pillows, and generally ensuring Draco's summer as comfortable as possible while she grumbled and cursed and wished him a beautifully wasting disease.

"There's something there which might interest you," Draco continued. "Look at page six."

He tossed her The Daily Prophet, far enough for it to land a few feet away from where Hermione was sitting. Throwing him an irritated glare, Hermione plucked it from the carpet, and turned to page six.

Lost among colourful prints of yesterday's Whisking Witch Baking Competition and advertisements for _Gannings' Goblin Glassware, was a tiny photograph of McNair flanked by two burly guards, being led away from Azkaban, the beginnings of a sinister smile on his face._

Hermione glanced at the caption: _'Murdoch McNair is led away from Azkaban prison, after his murder charges were dropped.' There was no accompanying story. McNair walked away and disappeared shortly out of the picture._

"How _could they -?" gasped Hermione. "But he tried to __kill you …"_

Draco wasn't looking at her. He was solemnly examining his fingernails.

*          *          *          *

As Hermione continued to fume in disbelief, Draco paid half-attention towards her, his thoughts drifting towards a few nights ago as he lingered in the Manor's cavernous library, flipping through sacred wizarding texts and amusing himself by doodling idly on pictures of tragic martyrs and long-dead heroes.

He heard his father enter the library, signature footsteps of leather boots upon marble floors echoing through the candlelit emptiness.

Then he heard his father's voice.

It sounded like a one-sided conversation at first, until he heard a second voice drift through the silence of the room, whispery and serpentine and beautifully mellifluous, in a way.

"You summoned me, my Lord?" Lucius whispered, unaware that he wasn't alone.

"Ah, Lucius," the voice said enthrallingly, sounding much like a dagger wrapped in expensive silk. "Finally. I trust you are alone? Is the library empty?"

"Yes, my Lord."

"Good, good. How magnificent. Now – have you received word on what happened to our long-absent comrade, McNair?"

"Yes, my Lord."

"Trapped in prison," the voice uttered in mock pity. "Most unfortunate. How did he get there, I wonder?"

Lucius didn't answer. Suddenly, the voice grew harsh, cutting through the silence like a knife.

"I want him freed, Lucius."

Lucius sounded as if he was restraining his voice from rising out of a low, level murmur. "My Lord – he tried to _murder my __son."_

"I don't care about your petty rivalries or competitive relationships, Lucius," the voice said sharply. "I need all my Death Eaters ready and convenient for my next task. I need them prepared. Do you understand me?"

"I understand, my Lord."

"Now, do what must be done. I don't want this to happen again."

"Of course not, my Lord. I shall not disappoint you." There was a sound of footsteps. A closing door. Then silence.

Draco glanced from behind the shelf he had been leaning against, and saw the surface of a gilded mirror – which hung grandly upon the walls ever since Draco was born – distort from a murky grey to its original, clear, reflective self. There was a smell of burnt sage in the room, which quickly faded into the flickering candlelight.

Draco leaned quietly back on the bookshelf and began to think for quite a while. He didn't bother erasing the markings he'd made in the books littered around his feet, and didn't seem to notice the grandfather clock gently toll the sounds of midnight.

*          *          *          *

"Why would he do that?" Hermione continued, shaking Draco out of his recollected thoughts. "It's pointless. He is your father, after all."

"There are some things, Granger," Draco pointed out, "that are far greater than family."

Hermione threw him an irritated glance, simply tossing the paper onto a nearby couch and retrieving a half-completed grey knitted woollen bundle from underneath it. "Oh, go and get some sleep," she muttered, stabbing the knitting needles back and forth as the hat she was making began to take shape.

Draco watched her for a while. "Sounds like a lovely idea to me," he said, drawing the shrouding curtains about his bed to block out the bright chandelier-light. "It's awfully tiring listening to you rant, anyway."

*          *          *          *

Hermione woke up from her sleep to the sound of faint, flowing music.

She hadn't realized she had fallen asleep. Yawning, she glanced through the darkness towards the clock at the end of the room: 3.15 AM. The chandelier had extinguished itself, drenching the room in darkness.

Glancing at Draco's bed, the first thing Hermione realized was that the curtains were drawn apart, revealing a very messy bedspread – sheets askew, cushions scattered, a few magazines lost among the ample folds of the coverlet. I can't believe I have to clean up all that in the morning, she thought in irritation. Then the most obvious detail hit her – the bed was empty.

Frowning at Draco's unannounced disappearance, Hermione's attention moved towards the faint, floating music she heard from the outside hallway. The door was ajar, a thick beam of muted candlelight spilling into the darkness.

Hermione roused herself from the couch. She began to follow the tiny thread of music.

The melody was being played on a solitary piano – haunting and almost melancholic in the dappled moonlight and dimly lit hallways. Hermione tried to recognize the tune – it wasn't any Muggle song, or popular Weird Sisters track, either. It sounded very sad and beautiful. The pianist was quite a skilled player too, she remarked, wondering who it could be.

She entered the Music Room. It was a grand ballroom with a chessboard marble floor, and an echoing domed ceiling painted with ghostly angels and winged horses. Tall, arched windows spread from floor to ceiling, letting pale shafts of moonlight fall into the darkened room.

At the far end of the chamber was a beautiful, black, grand piano. Someone was sitting at it and playing, back turned towards her.

_Draco_.

Hermione watched him, transfixed. Her first thought was; _'I didn't know Malfoy could play the piano'_, until she suddenly noticed the beauty of the melody, the grace of Draco's performance, and the sweet echoes vibrating through the hollow room. She listened intently. 

Suddenly the keys stopped. The music faded. Draco turned around to face Hermione and asked, "Recognize the tune?"

Hermione stopped in her tracks. She embarrassingly tried to look like she had just arrived, and hadn't been listening for the first few minutes. "No, not really."

"I thought not," Draco remarked with minor disdain. "It's from a famous wizarding opera – _The One-Winged Owl, by Etienne de Reverie. Quite a sad story, actually. I watched it when I was ten. _

"It was about a young lady who got herself turned into an owl and was forced to the paltry task of delivering letters for her lover, who was unaware of the fact that his snowy owl was, in fact, his true love. She had to watch him piteously pen love letters meant to be delivered to her, unable to tell him the truth of why she wasn't answering. 

"In the end, she was helpless to stop him from dying of a broken heart. Come to think of it," Draco added thoughtfully, "It was quite pathetic, really. And very dramatic."

"That sounds very sad," Hermione commented, feeling like a broken-heart herself. She felt like abruptly changing the subject – suddenly the storyline of the opera seemed _far too familiar, for some particular reason. "What was that song you were playing?"_

"It's called _Flighting Moon," he answered. "It pretty much speaks for itself, actually. What are you doing here?"_

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "I would very much ask you the same question."

Draco glanced outside the windows, towards the lonely moon hovering above the shadowy topiaries. "I had to think." Suddenly he did something strange: he pulled his wand out of the depths of his night-robes, tapping the tip of his wand upon the piano gently like a conductor testing his baton.

The piano seemed to groan gently, and new melody formed, playing itself upon the keys as if an invisible pianist sat at the chair.

"Care to dance?" Draco asked casually, holding out a hand towards Hermione as the song echoed around the room.

She stared at him oddly. He looked almost ethereal in the moonlight, standing poised and ghostly, his silver-blonde hair forming a vague halo about his face. There were the beginnings of a smile upon his lips, which bordered along the lines of a very handsome smirk, and his eyes looked starrier than before, somehow.

Hermione threw him a condescending look as she accepted his hand. "You puzzle me, Malfoy."

"Ah, yes, well," he admitted, "I like mysteries."

He swept her off her feet.

The melody floating from the piano echoed across the marble dance floor as Draco and Hermione waltzed, seemingly enamoured by the lilting tune and each other's footsteps. There was no other sound in the room but the music and the whispering of their clothes, and the soft steps they took as they glided across the marble.

Hermione grew dizzy, little by little. Too much spinning, she thought breathlessly, feeling the colour rise to her cheeks. She found herself becoming aware of the subtle grace of Draco's movements, the accuracy of his footsteps, the warmth of his hand in hers, how lithe his limbs were, how silvery his eyes looked under the influence of moonlight. 

It was as if she had been kept in a cage before, and she was discovering flight for the first time.

The space between them began to close little by little, the drunken euphoria of dance flirting with their minds. Hermione was distinctly aware of Draco's face inching towards hers, her lips parting slightly to brush against his…

The music suddenly died and the dance itself stopped – and both the dancers were silent as they took their last few steps. Hermione did not say anything. Draco was silent. Both felt strangely awkward and horribly flushed.

"Um," Draco began.

"Mmm," Hermione agreed.

They looked at their feet and frantically began to piece sentences in their heads.

"Hermione," Draco offered, staring at her regally in the eyes, "I have a proposition to make."

She looked expectantly at him, surprised at the suddenness of his declaration.

"I think keeping you here is far more troublesome than I expected," Draco continued. "After you arrived … look what happened; an attempted murder, a ruined Tower Room – things just get too exciting when you're around."

Hermione looked downwards, unable to resist a smile.

"So now, I've decided I'll let you go free – free and far away from the Manor. And help you lift your rather unfortunate curse," he added in a mutter, with as much dignified superiority he could muster.

Hermione looked at him. "Would you really? This isn't some sort of scheming ploy to get at me or my friends, is it?"

"Of course not," Draco retorted hotly. "Why would I want this to happen all over again?"

Hermione was silent. She would rather like it to happen all over again, actually, if it were to end in another dance. 

But the moon was setting and it would be dawn soon, and they had to head back to Draco's room before the sun chased away the last few strands of moonlight.

"Alright, then," she said. "I accept your offer. First thing tomorrow night, we set off for Knockturn Alley and we find the sorcerer Barquel, and hopefully a cure for my curse." And then she added, "Thank you, Mister Malfoy," holding her chin high.

Draco gave her a roguish smirk in return. "Anything for you, Hattie," he replied.

*          *          *          *


	18. Eighteen: The Journey From The Manor

My Life As A House-Elf

Chapter Eighteen – The Journey From The Manor

*          *          *          *

Maybe it was the fact that the last days of summer were soon fading into cold, faltering autumn; or the skies were cloudy and shimmery that morning; but Draco awoke to a vast feeling of dread.

_I'm still dreaming_, he told himself, as he stared across the sunlit room. _I dreamt last night I was dancing with Hermione Granger.__ On normal circumstances he would have considered that a horrifying nightmare, but these weren't normal circumstances. _

He could still distantly hear the music playing, the laugh in her smile, and the clumsy dance steps he took as he tried to remember how to waltz. Draco shook his head.

At his bedside was a lovely prepared breakfast. Hermione was nowhere to be seen.

*          *          *          *

Draco spent the rest of the morning in a daze, leafing through the Malfoy's vast Library, lost amid a labyrinth of books.

Currently, he was reading something that involved werewolves. A delightful illustration accompanied the passage, involving a man being eaten alive by a vicious, three-headed hellhound. Draco sighed, closing the book. He couldn't concentrate.

Everything – from the angelic murals painted on the Library ceiling, to the tapestries of playing nymphs tumbling from the walls – reminded him too much of Hermione. She was everywhere – in the gurgling fountains, in the singing sunlight. Draco had to remind himself constantly: _She's leaving tonight, Draco. You'll never have to deal with her obscene presence anymore; you'll never have to worry about Mother detecting unpleasant Mudblood smells about the Manor._

_You'll never find yourself dancing with her again_.

A deep, sickening feeling twisted in Draco's gut. He scowled, stumbled across Library shelves, and emerged in the Library's main chamber. Someone was waiting for him at one of the great pine tables.

"Good morning, Draco," Lucius Malfoy spoke cordially. "I was told you could be found here, even _after_ I sent message to you to see me in the study."

Draco frowned. He had received that message, but just couldn't bring himself to see his father. Not right now.

"I think I'm unwell," Draco remarked, clutching his stomach. This was not entirely untrue – he _was_ feeling a bit dizzy. "I don't think I can talk at the moment. May I be excused?"

"_Nonsense_," Lucius announced. He swept over towards an elaborate, heavy chair and sat down. "There are important things I have to say to you Draco, and you will hear them. Sit down."

Draco sat down. He sulked.

"Recent events –" Lucius began, then paused, as if he were carefully selecting his next words, "_Recent events_, Draco, have caused me to think greatly on the security and safety of this Manor. If you are unaware of it, this Manor was once an invulnerable fortress in the days of your ancestors, and what has transpired in the past few days have been quite a worry to both your mother and our bank account." He shook his head. "Lethifold attacks, _honestly_.

"Anyway – since there doesn't seem to be a less-awkward way to do this – I want to give you something," he continued, tossing something silvery and glittering into the air.

With the skill and precision of a trained Seeker, Draco caught it with ease. He unclenched his fist and stared at the gift in hand.

It was a necklace. An amulet, more like, with the ever-familiar dragon-pendant resting in Draco's palm. Within it, resided the Malfoys' Guardian Charm, a Patronus caught in something silver. The pendant glinted strangely in the dim sunlight, and its emerald eye sparkled softly in an ever-subtle wink.

"Isn't this supposed to be mother's?" Draco asked, still staring at the gift in spellbound admiration.

"A new ornament is being fashioned by our craftsman," Lucius explained, rising from his seat with the grace and elegance of someone who was very, very bored. "Your mother always wanted a bracelet, anyway. Take good care of it, Draco," and with that mentioned, he left.

Draco held up the pendant to catch the light, watching it swing slightly. He stared towards the slowly disappearing shadow of his father's retreating figure.

And, with thoughtful deliberation, he fastened the amulet around his neck.

*          *          *          *

_Tonight is the night_, Hermione thought nervously, tightening the cowl around her neck.

Outside, the full moon rose. It cast a dull, pearly light into the Grand Gallery, lighting the dusty chandelier and sleeping portraits of long-dead Malfoys in a ghostly glow. Hermione shivered. Patiently, she waited for the person she was waiting for to arrive.

_Tonight is the night_, she reminded herself again. She closed her eyes and sighed, repeating herself a prayer over and over. She didn't know why she felt so scared – all morning, she couldn't concentrate on her work, and hardly noticed the blur of her fellow House-elves around her. It was all as if she were walking through a dream.

_But last night was no dream_, she told herself, and, for a single moment, her fear seemed to evapourate.

_Dancing through the ballroom …no one to see us, but the stars and the sky and the sleeping chandelier.__ The softly playing piano, and the music of whispering clothes and carefully-placed footsteps_.

All day, Hermione had been playing lovely visions of freedom over and over in her mind – seeing her parents once again, meeting Harry and Ron in Diagon Alley as they shopped for school supplies, and never having to worry about wearing too-small pillowcases. She conjured these thoughts and went over them like a fondly read letter – but after awhile, the visions lost their luster. Hermione began to ache for something else; something missing – something _more_.

"Granger," a voice murmured.

Hermione jumped. She searched the darkness, and caught sight of two startling grey eyes emerging into the moonlight.

"You were dancing by yourself," Draco Malfoy said, bemused. "It's a little too early to be celebrating your freedom just yet, Granger. Follow me."

He strode over towards one of the Grand Gallery's vast chimneys. Hermione stared at him, and found herself again with that wistful feeling that had been plaguing her all day. The familiar ache for something _more_. She followed close behind him, and found herself memorizing the way he took a step. She shook herself awake.

"_Knockturn Alley_."

The Manor disappeared from sight in a flurry of green flames, and a puff of what smelt like gunpowder.

*          *          *          *

In a tumble of soot-stained robes and tangled hair, Hermione and Draco fell into the fireplace of a darkened, dusty shop.

Draco groaned as he tried to right himself. But something was holding him down – something with a substantial amount of bushy, brown curls and velvet robes.

"Granger – I'm sure you live by the 'women on top' philosophy – but this isn't the moment to be exercising it."

"Oh, sorry." Hermione was glad the shop was dark enough to hide her blushing. She rolled off Draco's sprawled, groaning body, and asked tentatively, "Are you alright?"

"Yes – I think my body broke my fall." Draco pushed himself upward.

"Sorry," she whispered again.

"This is why," Draco explained, "I prefer to travel by broom." He stood up and groaned. "Where do you suppose we've landed?"

"_TRESSPASSERS!__ THIEVES! Get out of my shop, gutter scum!"_

A tall, lanky figure in striped nightclothes came thundering down a nearby set of stairs, brandishing what seemed to be a large broom. He held a wand in his other hand, brightly-lit to illuminate the darkness.

"I warn you," the furious, breathless shopkeeper growled threateningly, "the last thief that tried to steal my merchandise ended up getting _eaten_ by it. If you don't get out of my shop, I'll feed you to the furniture!"

A note of recognition rang within Hermione at the sound of the shopkeeper's voice, and at the mention of his bizarre and unnatural threats. "Barquel?" she asked, mystified. "You're Barquel the sorcerer, aren't you?"

He lowered his broom, and pointed the lighted wand towards Hermione's face. "Have we met?" 

"A few weeks ago, you placed a curse on me," she explained quickly. "I accidentally broke a few of your potion bottles, and I'm terribly sorry about that – but we need your help to lift the curse."

The puzzled look on Barquel's face slowly melted into that of revelation. "You!" he cried in discovery. "You're that girl they've been looking for!"

Hermione exchanged a glance with Draco. "Who's been looking for me?" she asked.

Barquel shook his head, and sighed. His shoulders sagged as the earlier fury and defense left him, and with a complicated wave of his wand, the shop broke into brilliant light.

Hermione stared at the shop displays in curious wonder. In the darkness, she had not seen the fascinating merchandise on display – shelves filled with miniature animal skulls that chattered quietly, spinning Sneakoscopes, and large star models that twirled and glittered overhead.

Something hanging in the corner caught Hermione's eye. On closer inspection, Hermione recoiled slightly in horror – tacked upon the wall like morbid displays were shrunken House-elf heads, their eyes and mouths sewn up with thick twine. She turned away. Somehow she found Draco's hand to hold, and grasped it tightly without acknowledging the startled expression on his face.

Barquel brought out a folded copy of _The Daily Prophet from underneath a counter. "There you are – on the front page, too."_

Hermione studied the newspaper in surprise: splayed on the front cover, in clear black-and-white, was a large photograph of herself framed by screaming headlines.

_"Girl Goes Missing – Last Seen In Knockturn Alley"_, the main headline proclaimed in thick, black letters. Accompanying the full report on page three was a photograph of Hermione's parents, their faces etched with anxiety and distress.

_"Dark wizards have been blamed for her disappearance, though more rational sources place the blame on rogue goblins that have reportedly been seen in the Alley after nightfall,"_ read the article._ "Aurors have been searching the area for traces of the girl these past few days."_

Barquel had poured himself a flagon of Firewhiskey, which he seemed to be emptying at distressing speeds. "They searched my shop nearly a dozen times," he sighed tiredly, "and I had to remove and rearrange my merchandise a hundred times over, while they searched. I've been fined for possessing illegal artifacts over and over, and I'm going to be put out of business if this continues."

"Then why did you do it?" confronted Hermione. "Why did you curse me in the first place?"

"I was acting on impulse!" Barquel cried, and then took a long, comforting draught of Firewhiskey. "I didn't mean to do it – and when the report came out in the _Prophet, the first thing I wanted to do was look for you, and tell you the cure."_

Hermione's eyes snapped fully open. "There's a cure," she breathed, "oh, please tell me what it is now."

"Well, that's what I wanted to tell you," replied Barquel painfully. "There _is_ no cure."

A moment of silence passed like a winter's snowfall. Hermione stared at Barquel as if he had sprouted bright orange fins, a spangled tail, and announced his migration to the ocean. "_No cure?" she asked faintly._

"The only two cures require specific ingredients," Barquel explained quickly, catching the dangerous look in Hermione's eyes. "But they're very specific – and can't be found just anywhere."

Draco stepped forward. "I'll pay any amount you ask. No price is too high for me to afford." With a flourish, Draco pulled out a pouch full of glittering Galleons. "How much does it cost?" he offered generously.

Hermione stared at him. _This is uncharacteristic of him_, she thought, astonished. _When has Malfoy even done something nice for me? And he merely returned her gaze with a cold sneer._

Still, Barquel shook his head. Draco was momentarily stunned at the sorcerer's disregard for money, but recovered with Barquel's gloomy explanation: "What the cure requires, money cannot exactly buy."

"What _is_ the cure, then?" Hermione demanded, pounding her hand on the glass countertop of a display cabinet. The little jade ornaments carefully-arranged inside clattered noisily.

Barquel held his arms out placidly, and dove underneath the counter. He emerged with a large, leather-bound book, and opened it to a bookmarked page. "The only two cures of a transfigured enchantment," he read, "are the twin immortal and passionate emotions of love and hate. Thus, the suitable cure for the enchanted would either be a mortal wound dealt by a sworn enemy … or a kiss given to her by her true love."

Hermione stared at him, bewildered.

It was Draco who spoke first. "So," he reasoned, "the only way for me to cure her is to _hurt_ her – or to _kiss_ her?"

Barquel raised his eyebrows and shrugged. "That depends," he said, "do you happen to be her sworn enemy, or her true love?"

Draco snorted derisively. Without another word, he swept from the shop, his boots thundering across the wooden floor as if he planned to shatter it.

Hermione watched him leave. _A mortal wound dealt by a sworn enemy, the words tolled through her head, _or a kiss given to her by her true love_._

_But I don't _have_ a true love, Hermione thought, staring into the inky nighttime gloom in which Draco had disappeared._

"We'll be back," Hermione muttered tersely to a stunned Barquel, and swept after Draco, into the darkened streets of Knockturn Alley.

*          *          *          *

The alleyways seemed even more sinister at night than they were during the day.

Beggars coughed in the gutters, rats scampered over cobblestones, the shadows seemed to be filled with hollow spaces and hulking, sinister figures. Shop windows yawned emptily onto the streets like the mouths of giants.

"Malfoy?" Hermione called into the dark.

She was suddenly aware of the silence. Draco was nowhere in sight. In the dim light of the moon, she could see no trace of him, could not make out the familiar billow of his cloak, nor the reassuring resonance of his footsteps.

"Malfoy?" she called again bleakly. "Where are you?"

Then, she saw something flickering around the corner. A sliver of firelight. _It could be anyone_, she thought, biting her lip. But what choice did she have? Though she had read about numerous warnings in books on how one should _never follow light under any circumstances (you would either find yourself drowning in quicksand, or find your boots terribly muddy), Hermione shouldered past her fear, and made towards the tiny, flickering flames._

She gazed around the corner. Surrounding a tiny campfire of burning twigs and rubbish sat a bunch of bedraggled figures, muttering in snappish, surly tones. They had beady, glittering eyes, sharp, pointed ears, and mottled skin. A few of them had rats skewered on sharp sticks, and were roasting them over the dismal fire.

_Goblins_, Hermione thought in repulsed fascination, _like the ones that work at Gringotts. _Except these was the meaner, nastier rogue version. _What would they be doing _here?

One of them suddenly spoke. "Where's Grappler?" he snarled, dribbling over his barbequed rat. "We all agreed to meet here precisely after midnight. I'll have his head on a pike for being late."

"Just tell us now why we're all here, Smad," one of the gathered goblins said, his voice sounding like wet sandpaper. "We'll tell Grappler the plans when he gets here."

Smad – apparently the leader of the band – cleared his tiny throat and announced, "Alright then, let's get started. Smek, please put the rat down. I have called you all here, my noble brothers, to tell you of my brilliant plan that will not only make us rich, but will humiliate and embarrass our pathetic brethren that have decided to work for the wizards."

This got the attention of the group. Their pointed ears twitched, and they sat silently, eyes glittering like beads. One of them asked, "Do you mean those stuffed, suit-wearing, poor excuses for goblins that work at Gringotts?"

"That's exactly what I mean!" Smad cried, eyes glittering. "We're going to rob them from under their noses – make sure it gets into the papers – then we'll be rich; and they would be punished by their pathetic wizard employers!"

This was met with murmurs of agreement. "How will we do it?" a younger goblin asked, clearly enthusiastic with the idea.

"It won't be a problem," answered Smad, "We have a friend who works in the vaults, who has come to see the error of his ways in serving the dirty wizard scum. His name is Gristle. He will help us get pass the magic barriers and the locks, and we'll all be swimming in all the Galleons we want … and not only that, we will also ruin the wizards, who think they can lord over us by giving our unfortunate brothers poor banking jobs.

"The wizarding world will erupt into chaos! And they will see that us _goblins are a force to contend with – like in the days of our glorious ancestors, the age of the goblin wars!"_

A chorus of rousing cheers followed. Hermione watched and listened, spellbound, knowing she should tell someone about this as soon as she possibly could. The last few words froze her where she stood.

"When do we begin this?" one of the goblins asked.

"Why, tomorrow of course," answered Smad, licking his lips, "we have everything ready."

Hermione turned to leave. She had heard enough.

It was then she bumped into Grappler.

"_Oi_," the goblin remarked in surprise, his large orange eyes narrowing into slits, "'Ow long 'ave you been standing there, girl?"

Hermione gaped for something to say – until Smad and the gang goblins left the campfire, dispersing to meet their late comrade.

"What do we have here, Grappler? Looks like you brought a little witch with you to the meeting," muttered Smad, holding up what looked like a barbed goblin cutlass.

Taking this as a signal, hundreds of blades were suddenly pointed to her at once, wielded by far more goblins than Hermione could remember seeing before.

"Let's slit her throat," one of them proposed, balancing five knives in his hand.

"Let's cut her up to share," another croaked, razor-teeth glinting.

"Let's roast her over the fire and make a stew with her bones," another proposed, and the air was filled with barks and whistles of approval.

And Hermione found herself out of options – and out of escapes – very suddenly.

*          *          *          *


	19. Nineteen: The Disenchantment

My Life as a House-Elf

Chapter Nineteen: The Disenchantment

*          *          *          *

Surrounded by goblins all armed with various sharp weapons, and not carrying a wand or any means of protection, Hermione knew she had fallen into one of the many uncompromising situations of her life. 

But this time, neither Harry nor Ron would come running in gallantly to save her, and no amount of Mandrake roots growing in the Hogwarts greenhouses could provide any cure for this situation. No books, or learning, or academic achievements could save Hermione now.

She was completely disarmed. And she was mortally afraid.

_Why did you have to go looking for him?_ a small, scared voice asked. _Draco__ wouldn't appreciate you dying __for him._

"Let's see what witches taste like," Smad the goblin smirked nastily, "bet they don't taste too different from rat."

Howls and gurgles of agreement echoed Smad's sentiments. Blades flashed in the firelight like lightning, and eyes glinted greedily. Hermione opened her mouth to scream.

"HOLD FAST," a huge, powerful voice suddenly boomed. The alleyways echoed like an approaching thunderstorm. "LET THE GIRL GO, AND YOU SHALL ALL BE SPARED."

The goblins stopped in their tracks. They glanced at one another suspiciously, then at the shadowy corners of the alleyway where the light didn't touch. The voice could have come from anywhere.

"Who are you, _wizard_?" Smad called defiantly. "Show yourself – stop hiding behind your spells and your shadows like a coward."

"WE'LL SEE WHO THE TRUE COWARDS ARE," the voice challenged sharply in reply. A moment of silence passed uncomfortably. The goblins chattered, gripped their blades tightly, and gnashed their teeth at the unspeaking darkness. Hermione held her breath.

"_INCARE AMULETUM," the voice suddenly boomed._

Silver, pearly light flowed into the alley, filling the darkness with a deep, milky glow of moonlight. Thundering roars echoed across the dirty cobblestones and black brick. A pair of blazing eyes and clashing talons later, a magnificent, silvery Patronus stood towering in the air, smoke rising from its mouth and fire searing in its mirror-like eyes.

"Run, lads,_ run!" Smad cried shrilly. And they ran, their shouts of fright and fury fading down the alley behind them as the Guardian pursued, its silver tail and avenging howls the last thing to vanish behind the corner._

Thick silence fell upon the alley. A moment later, a familiar blonde head poked itself from out of the shadows, asking in a quite normal voice, "Are they gone yet?"

Hermione had never been so happy, nor so glad to see anyone in her life – especially not Draco Malfoy. Instinctively, she rushed towards him – slinging her arms around his shoulders, and burying her face in the thickness of his cloak. Cold relief washed over her.

"Thank you," was all she managed to say.

The both of them held onto one another in silence for awhile. When Draco released her, Hermione stepped back and caught sight of him replacing the silver Guardian charm into his pocket, the glinting pendant of a dragon disappearing with a wink. "The Guardian," she laughed, "it's saved us again."

But Draco was in no mood for laughter. 

"_What, pray tell, were you __trying to do?" he cried in exasperation, pushing Hermione roughly away, his voice raw. "Are you Gyffindors _always_ looking to get yourselves __killed? Why can't you – for love of Salazar Slytherin – stop rushing gallantly into battle like the fools you are?"_

Hermione looked at him, distressed. His silver eyes were piercing. He gripped her shoulders as if he wanted to break them; his mouth was twisted into a cold and unforgiving scowl. "Don't you ever try to save my life again, Hermione Granger," Draco murmured harshly, "Don't try to do anything stupid again."

And with that, he released her. He turned away without another word.

"I'll take you back to Barquel's," he finally said, voice no more than a murmur. "I know Knockturn Alley like I know my own home, and I'm armed with a wand. And I think –" Draco paused, and then looked at her levelly, his face revealing nothing, "I think I know what we must do."

There was something in his voice which chilled Hermione to the bone. But, taking his hand, she had no other choice but to follow him.

*          *          *          *

"_A mortal wound dealt to her by her own sworn enemy," recited Barquel the sorcerer bleakly. "Are you both sure about this?"_

Draco's face was aloof and impassive. "Yes, we're sure."

Hermione, on the other hand, was as white as a sheet. She clutched at her robes desperately, and chewed on the end of her lip. She wasn't so sure about Draco's choice of cure – mortal wounds weren't called '_mortal' for nothing._

"Very well then," Barquel sighed. He disappeared under the counter for awhile, and when he emerged, he was carrying something which made Hermione's heart jolt.

A silver, ornate dagger, its handle decorated with a multitude of jewels. The long, thin blade shone brilliantly in the candlelight, straight as a bolt of lightning, polished and glinting like sunlight upon water. Draco picked it up. He held it hovering in front of his face, the reflected light of the jewels casting an eerie glow over his eyes. He nodded.

"This will do."

The look of distress upon Barquel's face was evident. "The blade is laced with the deepest, most potent poison brewed by Dark wizards, sir. The victim would die within seconds if the antidote isn't administered quickly – and the pain and the anguish of being cured by such a poison take days to recover from –"

"I said, _it will do!_" Draco insisted. He roughly dropped a bag of Galleons onto the countertop, where it fell with an alarming clatter and tore open. The Galleons spilt onto the countertop, strewn and glittering. They all watched this with horrified fascination.

Gathering the Galleons up, Barquel whispered softly, "I will go down and get the antidote." He shook his head as he stared at Hermione. "I'm so sorry Miss – I'm ever so sorry –" Barquel was weeping as he swept down a hidden trapdoor, towards an underground pantry down below.

The shop, once an activity of swirling colours and glittering contraptions, suddenly fell into a bleak and unsettling silence. None of them could speak.

"Do you _have_ to do this?" Hermione finally cried, breaking the silence as if she were shattering windowpanes with a war hammer. "_Why_ do we have to do this?"

"You heard the sorcerer," replied Draco with a cruel, cutting snarl. He turned his icy gaze upon her. "Your rather unfortunate curse cannot be broken by mere wand-waving and chanting and potions that taste like strawberries. It's a difficult world, Hermione – this is what we have to do."

"An alternative," pleaded Hermione desperately, "there must be an alternative."

The frosty expression on Draco's face could have put winter itself to shame. "A _kiss_," he said in a mocking sneer, "a _kiss_ from your true love. You don't _have_ a true love, Hermione –" he held up the dagger threateningly, "but you _do have a sworn enemy."_

She stared at him, then at the dagger, and then met his eyes again. She took a step towards him and saw, to her hope, he lowered the dagger but a few inches as she approached. "Draco Malfoy," she breathed, "you are not my enemy."

The dagger fell with a clatter onto the floor.

Draco was screaming. "_Stop_, Hermione, stop it!" he cried, holding his hands up into fists. "_Why do you have to make things so __difficult? Why can't you hate me, loathe me, and despise my very existence? _How_ am I to help you cure your curse, when you are so bloody, aggravatingly __noble all the time? Just be reasonable, Hermione," his voice died away into a pleading murmur, "just be reasonable and stop thinking about me. Hate me, yes. But help me lift this curse, so we can go back to the way things were."_

There were no words to describe how Hermione felt at that moment. Draco was standing before her, breathless and angry, but his eyes shone with a bright and glorious anguish, speckled with the promise of tears. It would have been the perfect time to say something. But she said nothing. It was as if speech hadn't yet been invented.

Instead, she stepped a bit closer – watched him flinch – and took his face in her hands. "I don't want things to go back to the way they were," she whispered, "it has come to a time where things should _change_."

And she kissed him.

She tasted tears, sorrow, mourning. But she also felt relief. Hermione felt his arms encircle her in an almost terrified motion, for his hands were shaking and were cold, but Draco held her closer, firmly, afraid to let go. Hermione had never seen Draco afraid of something so trivial. She had never seen him refuse to mock her actions.

Then again, she had never seen him in love before.

It was Draco who backed away first. He stared at her, watched in curious fascination at the tears sliding down her cheeks, knowing that he had similar, shining wet trails on his face, too. He stared at her and felt the world tilt around him. Things indeed have changed. Things have changed greatly. And at that particular moment, he didn't care if it was for the better or worse.

"Hermione," he breathed, "you know this isn't supposed to happen."

"That's not for us to decide," she replied. "Things have happened, whether they were supposed to or not. We were just simply here when they happened."

He kissed her again. At that particular moment, Barquel stepped from beneath the cellar's trapdoor, holding a tiny blue vial in hand, staring at the couple in a mixture of surprise and embarrassment.

"Oh," he said lightly, awkwardly shifting his weight and twiddling with the antidote in hand, "I don't suppose you've changed your mind about the cure, then?"

*          *          *          *

Draco and Hermione sat outside, watching the sunrise.

As the bright shafts of sunlight touched Hermione's face, no transformation happened. Her skin remained its supple, healthy white. Her fingers stayed long and tapered, and her ears – thankfully – did not reach past her forehead like they did before. She remained ordinarily, plainly, simply, and _gloriously human._

Without another thought she got to her feet, and started twirling around in the early morning light, arms outstretched and crying joyously in triumph. "We did it! I'm _free_! The curse is broken and I can go _home_!"

At the sound of her last cheer, Hermione stopped, her grin faltering. She gazed towards the sun – slowly rising above the tinted roofs of Knockturn Alley shops – then towards Draco, who sat, sullenly, in the lingering nighttime shadows.

"Draco, I –"

"No, don't speak," he said, a faint smile dancing across his lips, "I don't want to hear a word of how much you're going to miss my infatuating and dazzling presence. You're free. You're going home. And I –" he took a deep breath and glanced at the silent alley, "I'll just stay here and polish my nails, I suppose."

Hermione couldn't resist a smile. She had the urge to dash towards him and overwhelm him with a large and sincere hug, but she knew he would never forgive her for messing up his robes. Instead, she took his hand.

"Thank you," she muttered, "for everything."

He shook his head. "I'm supposed to be thanking _you. Ever since that fateful afternoon in Knockturn Alley when you …" Draco coughed, and continued, "when you threw up all over my father's boots – things have changed. I no longer think my father loathes me anymore, and I have to say this has been the most __eventful summer of my life."_

Hermione let out a laugh. Then she paused, looking at the alley's cobblestones as if she could see her entire future unfold within the dull grey cracks. "What would they think," she asked suddenly, looking into his eyes, "What would everyone else think?"

"About what?"

"About the both of us. You and I. Gryffindor and Slytherin, Malfoy and Mudblood," she gave a wry smile. "About us being together."

Draco raised his eyebrows. "Oh, they'd probably lock us up in two separate towers until we starve to death." He shrugged. "It might get a bit boring, but the lack of dealing with simpering idiots wouldn't be so bad."

"I'm being _serious_, Malfoy," Hermione frowned, sitting down next to him on the stone bench. "What would Hogwarts think, if I told them I … If I told them you were more than just another conceited Slytherin to me?"

"The Astronomy Tower and the Ravenclaw Tower," said Draco thoughtfully, leaning back elegantly on the bench, still lingering on his previous subject, "those towers are far apart and isolated enough, though we could still smuggle in an owl or two for correspondence."

"Draco!"

He gave her a knowing smirk, like the ones she would commonly see him throwing at her from across crowded Hogwarts halls. "We don't have to tell them anything, Granger. They don't need to know just yet. 'Til next summer."

Hermione bit her lip, and was about to say something, when Draco whipped out something from a pocket in his robes. It was long, soft, and striped in silver and green. He laced it around her neck, pulled her closer, and whispered into her ear, "I release you from my service, Hattie the house-elf."

She could hear the smile in his voice. Draco tied the Slytherin scarf carefully around her neck, and, without another word, pulled her in for another kiss.

Overhead, the sun rose in majestic brilliance. The last few days of summer were fading gradually into the cold splendour of autumn – another season rolling slowly into the next.

*          *          *          *

Epilogue:

The final few days of July at last came to a close. Mornings became colder, leaves started to fall from the tree branches, swallows darted over the skies towards warmer countries, and the endless blue skies turned a dull, autumn grey. The new school term would start soon. The changing seasons heralded the beginning of another new cycle, and all things seemed as if they would return to the way they were.

Well – _almost_ all things.

Lucius Malfoy confronted his son a few days after that memorable night, pacing around on the richly-furnished study and wearing down a trail in the plush, wine-red carpet. "That's the _second_ House-elf you've lost this summer," he muttered, staring at Draco dangerously and holding up a book of the Malfoy financial records. "I'm not going to buy you another, Draco, if you keep thinking that throwing clothes at them in your temper tantrums will solve anything."

"Oh, good," Draco sighed in relief. "I've had quite enough of House-elves this year."

That wasn't the _last_ the Malfoys would hear about House-elves, though.

*          *          *          *

Down beneath the Manor's polished marble floors, bright chandeliers, and finely-kept gardens, the Malfoys' cavernous cellars were being filled to the brim.

House-elves from neighbouring estates, mansions and manors had gathered there illegally, travelling through abandoned rabbit holes, secret tunnels and hidden entrances. They all belonged to rich, important wizarding families. They all had been cruelly mistreated in their households. And they were all looking forward to a change in the way things were run.

"Friend Hattie may have left the House-elves," Gilly's voice came booming across the echoing underground walls, "but Hattie also leaves behind the cruel Masters and Mistress! Hattie is brave! Hattie is strong! And one day, all House-elves will be as brave and strong as Hattie!"

It was said that the cheers and roars coming from cellars had startled colonies of rabbits acres away.

*          *          *          *

When Hermione got home after a weeks of absence, her parents met her as if they had seen a ghost. She stood on the porch smiling, as her parents burst into tears of relief, declared a few miracles, and hugged her close. They had a relieved and tearful reunion, after which many frantic phone calls and breathless explanations followed.

"I had a bit of an accident," Hermione later told reporters over a cup of tea. "I accidentally knocked myself on the head, and when I came to, I had trouble remembering who I was, or what I was doing there.

"I stayed a few days in The Leaky Cauldron, trying to regain my memory. And only when that article came out in the _Daily Prophet_ did I realize who I was. I rushed home as soon as I could."

The reporters bought her story, to Hermione's relief. She _did have time to work on it._

Needless to say, the Grangers forbade their daughter from ever returning to Knockturn Alley ever again. "You don't have to warn me twice," Hermione said with a roll of her eyes, smiling as she caught sight of a small report on page six of the _Daily Prophet_. Apparently a group of rogue goblins had been arrested for trying to break into Gringotts bank vaults.

*          *          *          *

Diagon Alley, on the other hand, was a different matter. As Hermione dashed through the shops for her school supplies, she caught sight of a familiar head of messy black hair, and a freckled face topped with a carroty red mop.

"Harry, Ron!" she called, running towards them.

At the sight of Hermione, their faces lit up in relief and delight. "It's Hermione!" Ron cried, and when the three met together they were caught in a rather messy – but sincere – hug.

"We saw the report in the papers," exclaimed Ron, staring at Hermione in reeling wonder as if she had just come back from the dead.

Harry nodded. "We were very worried. They wanted to give up looking for you, but Ron got his Dad to negotiate an extended investigation."

"Dad actually wanted an opportunity to search Knockturn Alley," Ron confessed sheepishly, "but Harry eventually got them going. Everyone listens to Harry. Right, mate?"

"We're just happy you're alright," Harry finally gushed – and Hermione couldn't help but be amused at their awkwardness at being so open. She gave them each a kiss on the cheek – which only served to make them feel more awkward than before, of course.

After conversing for a while, Ron noticed something different about his friend. "Hermione," he asked tentatively, "what's that around your neck?"

She reached to touch it gently. "Oh this?" she dismissed lightly, "it's just a scarf, that's all. Everyone wears one, Ron."

"But … it's a _Slytherin_ scarf," Harry observed, wrinkling his nose lightly in distaste.

"I know."

Harry and Ron exchanged a glance, shrugged, and invited Hermione for an ice-cream at Florean Fortescue's. They never questioned her about her scarf again ("Must be another one of her studying methods," Ron deduced when he and Harry were alone, throwing her a queer glance).

As they made their way down the twists and turns of Diagon Alley, swollen with the back-to-school shopping crowds – Hermione caught sight of a familiar face, half-hidden in the shade of colourful shop canopies.

A familiar, haughty face. With wintry, silvery eyes. Over the bustling crowds and surging sea of faces they sought each other out, exchanged a glance, a smile, and a wink, and as they turned away to go their separate ways they lingered on the same, final thought:

_'Til next summer, then._

*          *          *          *

THE END.

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

Author's Note:

Many people need to be thanked in the creation of _My Life As A House-elf, and they are:_

**Katie – my Beta since the first chapter, and one of my best online buddies. She has saved me from much embarrassment, and I owe the quality of the fanfic to her.**

**Campy Capybara, who not only provided excellent suggestions to improve my writing, but spotted a lot of humiliating mistakes that would have been quite embarrassing on my behalf.**

**Wickedwitch**, who endured my prattling on about my plot and storyline, and for introducing me to Contra Veritas (contraveritas.zephy.net). She dragged me kicking and screaming onto the crew of CV, only to make me realize working for such a site was quite fun.

**The Crew of CV, for reading, supporting, de-stressing.**

**The Reviewers, whose invaluable opinions and feedback helped me improve my writing. You have no idea how much you guys rock.**


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